


The Man Who Fixes Things

by Teragram



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, Home Invasion, Home Repair, Homophobic Language, Humor, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Portraits, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Pureblood Society, Romance, justin finch-fletchley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: Draco Malfoy’s house elves have stopped reproducing, and the service industry of wizarding Britain has turned against him. Harry’s solution involves housebreaking, a big gay brunch, life-saving, and possibly letting the love of his life marry someone else. Draco can see why The Chosen One wasn’t sorted into Ravenclaw.





	1. Draco’s Big Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into writing in the Potterverse. Also, I am Canadian. Please let me know if I get something heinously wrong.

The second annual Ministry Peace Banquet was a boring affair; an assortment of Britain’s wizarding elite and three hours of self-congratulations. Harry leaned against a column, glad he’d taken that new anti-anxiety potion. He was definitely finding it easier to “socialize without stress or tension,” as promised on the bottle. Last year he’d spent most of the Peace Banquet _behind_ the column. This year, thanks to a dose of Chillax, he’d shaken hands with half the wizarding world and posed for a mind-boggling number of photos.

And now he was sipping a fizzy green drink and listening to the warm sounds of the Chudleigh String Quartet as he counted down the minutes to dinner. Feeling calm, and nearly guilt-free at having done his bit for the Ministry, Harry engaged in a spot of people-watching to pass the time. There was Rowan MacCorquodale, regaling a trio of adoring witches with a story about battling a Welsh Waterleaper that had killed three muggle fishermen. By the bar, a witch from Cornwall was drinking double-fisted while lecturing an Unspeakable about the Ministry’s abysmally insufficient financial support of ley line research.

It wasn’t the usual Ministry crowd, Harry realized. In an effort at reunification, Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had invited a number of guests whose wartime allegiance hadn’t been light. Harry recognized Pansy Parkinson and Gregory Goyle by the appetizers. There was Theo Nott, locked in an animated discussion with Thrax Bean from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Nott’s father had been a Death Eater and the family had used dark magic for generations. Theo probably had more than a few stories about magical accidents. Merlin knew Ron had shared some hilarious ones with him just from his experience as an auror.

And there was Messrs. Borgin and Burke, whose eponymous Knockturn Alley shop had been recently burgled of dark relics. Ron was on the case now, otherwise he’d be here, distracting Harry from his nerves.

Harry slipped a hand inside his jacket and reassured himself that his conversation-starters were still there. He’d thought Hermione was insane when she’d suggested researching the guests and preparing notes ahead of time, but he was damned glad to have them. He’d find his targets, say his lines, eat his dinner, and go home, mission accomplished.

Now, he wondered, eyes scanning the crowd, where was Lady Pitt Peel? He had some lovely smart questions to ask about her gardening.

Harry spotted Draco Malfoy, his white-blonde hair cropped short, wearing a black muggle suit and tie. He supposed the new look helped Draco distinguish himself from his father. Ron claimed that the Ministry had docked the estate heavily for inheritance taxes after the death of Lucius Malfoy, but Draco’s suit must’ve cost a packet. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of an issue of _Esquire_. Harry felt shabby in comparison.

“They’re not as evil as people expect them to be.”

Harry smiled. That ethereal voice could only belong to Luna Lovegood. He turned, pleased to see a familiar face. The way her furry pink boots matched her gown was reassuringly odd.

“Oh. Hey Luna. Who’s not evil?”

“Our classmates, of course.” She nodded toward Parkinson and Goyle who were talking with an elderly wizard sporting a Slytherin tie.

“I don’t think they’re evil,” Harry said. “They were young, frightened, and easily led.” Harry wondered how things might have been different if he had made an effort to recruit the Slytherins to his side in the war. Although really he’d just been following Dumbledore’s lead on leaving them to their own devices. Perhaps they’d all been easily led.

Luna swung around the pillar, her blonde curls floating in her wake. “I wonder who’s leading them now?” Her face brightened. “Maybe they’ve learned to lead themselves.”

Harry wondered too. Losing a war didn’t change who people were at their core, any more than winning a war had erased character flaws on his own side. Even Snape, one of the bravest wizards he’d known, had still been a right bastard as a professor.

“All alone this evening Harry?” Luna asked.

Harry nodded. “Ron’s working that Knockturn alley burglary and Hermione’s in Scotland, recruiting for her campaign.”

“I admire her commitment to securing voting rights for magical creatures. We’ve covered it several times in _The Quibbler_.”

Harry supposed it was admirable. The current law only allowed wizards and witches to vote, but people like Firenze and Griphook deserved to be just as disappointed by politics as he was. He’d expected that Kingsley would shake things up as Minister for Magic, but thus far things remained annoyingly static.

“Have you seen Draco’s muggle suit?” Luna asked.

“Yes, I did.” Harry finished his drink and set it on a tray offered by a passing house elf. “Rather unexpected.”

“Muggle clothes are all the rage now,” Luna said. “Maybe I should get a suit too. Draco looks quite good in his.”

Harry reminded himself to think before replying. Malfoy did look good, but saying so might be a bad idea. Since his break-up with Ginny last year he’d been doing some soul-searching. An explicit dream about Oliver Wood had raised some questions for him, and an explicit magazine he’d seen in Knocturn Alley had answered most of them. He wasn’t ready to tell everyone, and if he were then he’d start with Ron and Hermione. Best friends deserved to hear it first, directly from him.

“You’d look smashing in a suit, Luna,” he said at last.

The chime rang for dinner so he bid Luna farewell, then wandered, looking for his place at the banquet table. Ministry dinner seating was based on a complicated arithmancy known only to the event planners. His seat assignment changed every time. He wondered if this was to prevent someone from cursing his chair, or planting a muggle explosive under it. Probably best not to know.

He nodded greetings to the witches on his right and left. One stiffened in shock and the other simpered into her hand. He sat, raised his head, and got a surprise of his own. There, practically across from him, was Draco Malfoy.

Up close, Malfoy looked different than he had as a teen. This was a quieter, more serious Malfoy, with a lean masculine face. Harry supposed they all had reason to be serious now. It was great not having Voldemort trying to kill him, but being an adult was no picnic.

Harry took a calming breath and acknowledged Malfoy with a nod. He hadn’t forgotten how the prat had stomped his face in sixth year, and tried to _crucio_ him in the girl’s bathroom. But if he were tallying up sins, Harry had nearly murdered him with _septumsempra_ , and Malfoy had refused to identify him to the death eaters when he, Ron, and Hermione had been taken by snatchers, for which Harry was grateful, however begrudgingly. Malfoy had also prevented Crabbe from killing him in the room of requirement, although that may have been so Voldemort could kill him later. Still, whatever Malfoy’s motive, Harry had saved him from Fiendfyre, which had to count for something.

His feelings about Malfoy’s family were mixed as well. Narcissa had lied to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, saving his life again. Harry heard that Lucius had abandoned the Death Eaters prior to the Battle of Hogwarts, which rather stretched the meaning of ‘better late than never.’ Harry had kept Draco and his mother out of Azkaban by testifying on their behalf in front of the Wizengamot and felt they were even. Given their history, they weren’t enemies, but they were miles from being friends. He aimed for civil.

Harry started on his first course. The meal was very good, even if it wasn’t up to Hogwarts standards. As a child, he’d had to gobble his food before his aunt took it away, which hadn’t made him the most elegant of diners. After horrifying people at the Orphan’s Fund Dinner by using his dessert fork to eat Brussels sprouts Harry had taken a dining etiquette class. He’d learned a lot, but regretted telling Hermione. Although the pamphlets for other self-improvement courses she’d foisted upon him had made a good start to his bonfire last Guy Fawkes Night.

“Harry Potter!” A plump witch next to Malfoy gushed at him. “I simply have to thank you for killing You-Know-Who! Amazing work!” She elbowed the man on her other side, whose pale shapeless face Harry recognized. It was Kilgore MacDuff, an under-assistant-to-someone-or-other, in Kingsley’s cabinet.

“Isn’t he amazing?” She prodded.

“Yes, very impressive,” MacDuff said, not sounding impressed in the least. “Even if it did take him three years.”

“I was fourteen when Voldemort returned.” Harry spoke through gritted teeth, trying to keep his smile from slipping. He’d heard this complaint before and always thought it particularly unfair. He was only nineteen now, but it made fourteen look alarmingly young to him in retrospect.

MacDuff grunted. “Too busy playing quidditch and chasing after witches. Wish you’d gotten ‘round to ending the war earlier, is all. Cost a lot of good wizards their lives.”

Harry felt this temper rising and tried to calm himself. He’d had a bit of accidental magic when he got angry lately. Another thing he’d be sure to tell Ron and Hermione about first, when he got round to it. But unlike his anxiety, there wasn’t a raspberry-flavoured potion to deal with explosions of fury. He spoke as calmly as he could. Raising his voice only made it worse.

At times like these Harry felt the tension between his Gryffindor side, that wanted to knock MacDuff in the head, and his Syltherin side, that urged him toward a more subtle revenge. He let the Slytherin side win. Smacking someone in the head would ruin the Peace Dinner. The cold stare he gave MacDuff would have unnerved anyone.

“Thanks for your thoughts on the matter,” he said. “What exactly did you do during the war?” He’d learned that this line of questioning usually shut up most of the blowhards.

“I was at the Ministry,” MacDuff said, making eyes at the simpering witch. “I was junior vice-assistant for the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic.”

Harry’s heart pounded and he felt a predatory rush. Of course. MacDuff had worked for ‘Madame Undersecretary’ Umbridge, breaking the wands of muggle-borns and sending chasers after people like Hermione. So much for staying calm. Harry supposed he should excuse himself before all the glassware on the table exploded in their faces.

“So you worked for Voldemort.” Malfoy’s clear, posh voice cut in.

Harry turned in surprise. People rarely said Voldemort’s name, even now. He hadn’t expected Malfoy to do so, and especially not to agree with him. It was intriguing.

“I beg your pardon?” MacDuff turned to glare at the blond.

“Voldemort controlled the Ministry from the moment he murdered Scrimgour,” Malfoy said evenly. “The Thicknesse Ministry was a puppet regime.”

MacDuff spluttered. “The ministry has _never_ been controlled by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!”

“Oh?” Malfoy feigned innocence. “Who issued all those wanted posters for Potter then?”

Harry laughed, his anger dissipating. He had a cracking good collection of anti-Potter propaganda in a box at home, including a ‘Potter Stinks’ button Malfoy himself had charmed back in the Tri-Wizard Tournament days. The damn thing still worked.

“Malfoy’s right.” Harry said, and all eyes turned to him. “Sorry, MacDuff, I thought everybody knew about Thickness. Under _Imperious_ from the start, apparently. Dark time for the Ministry. Some people still ask me to sign my wanted poster.”

MacDuff wobbled. With his pale head and protruding eyes, he resembled a surprised blancmange. He reached for his wineglass with a stiff arm. “I’m sure nobody wants to be bored with old Ministry doings.”

“On the contrary.” Malfoy said. “I’d be interested to hear how you fought corruption in the Ministry during Voldemort’s reign. It must’ve been rife.”

A dozen eyes turned to MacDuff.

Harry smiled. He wondered if the others could tell that this was Malfoy being funny. Maybe you needed to be on the receiving end of it for seven or eight years first. MacDuff was rather on the spot, but Harry didn’t mind.

“Wasn’t my brief to rout out corruption,” MacDuff said. “I was a junior vice-assistant for the—“

“Oh yes. That’s right!” Malfoy cut in. “You’d said. Sorry.”

“Umbridge, wasn’t it?” A wizard with a luxuriant moustache asked, getting in on the chat.

“I believe you’re correct, Llewellyn. It was Umbridge.” Malfoy said, putting a smile under that wizards’ facial hair. “Tell us, MacDuff, what did you think of the trials against the muggleborn?”

Harry was surprised by the ease with which Malfoy said ‘muggleborn’ instead of ‘mudblood.’ Harry wondered if Malfoy had practiced.

“I did the job I was asked to do!” MacDuff spat. “Can’t we discuss something other than the bloody war?”

Those around them exchanged glances, clearly of the opinion that MacDuff was prone to vulgar outbursts. Harry stared at Malfoy, who looked a picture of distressed virtue. Only Harry could tell it was a mask, and he enjoyed that fact immensely.

“Sorry,” Malfoy said. “I didn’t realize it was a sore point. Must be the happy occasion. Peace Banquet, you know. Reminding me of the war a bit.”

Harry felt warm inside. Seeing MacDuff be sorry he’d opened his mouth was an unexpected gift, from Malfoy, of all people.

Harry recognized the witch next to Malfoy and was pleased to recall his conversation notes. “Lady Pitt-Peel,” he said, “why don’t you tell us about your gnome-repelling radishes? I hear you’re going commercial with them soon.”

The rest of the dinner passed quickly, and Harry soon found himself next to Malfoy in line for the cloak-check.

“Thanks for that,” Harry said, feeling awkward. “That was the most fun I’ve ever had at one of these things. Really.”

Malfoy sniffed. “MacDuff wouldn’t know a Dark Lord from a demiguise. He should be thanking you.” He accepted his cloak and tipped the smartly uniformed cloak-check witch. “We all should.” Without another word, Malfoy apparated away.

Harry was so surprised at the compliment that he almost left without his cloak.

* * *

 

Draco stripped off his muggle suit and gave Worry, his house elf, strict instructions regarding its laundering. He’d had to venture into Muggle London to buy the thing, finding his way from King’s Cross to Oxford Circus and from there to Savile Row, clutching his wand in a white-knuckled fist all the way. The black plastic card Gringott’s had provided him seemed entirely suspect, but the handsome muggle in the shop had accepted it as if it were made of galleons. Considering what Gringotts charged to set up the Mugglemoney card, he supposed it might as well be. He’d bought some _pret-a-porter_ garments, and had a few bespoke shirts done up. He’d say this for them, muggles made exceptionally good tailors. The shop had made him a bloody gorgeous suit, and he had no intention of messing it up with shoddy cleaning. Worry was excellent at wardrobe, even if she seemed to have lost interest in much else.

Draco downed a small vial he’d placed by the bed earlier. The potion was an experiment, designed to enable him to dream, but not risk his recurring nightmares. It blocked the fear centres of the brain during the REM cycle, making dreams considerably less disturbing. He’d spent the winter reading muggle books on sleep from London's Central muggle Library. It reminded him of Hogwart’s, save all of the books felt dead, but they’d been exactly what he needed to make the next leap in his work. When perfected, his potion would stop nightmares without the addictive side effects and long-term damage of Dreamless Sleep. Tonight he’d be testing a change he’d made to the timing of the second stir, which should quell his impulse to shave with a straightrazor the morning after. He couldn’t knock Dreamless Sleep off the market if his customers risked cutting their own throats.

As he settled into bed he wondered if he’d dream about Potter. He’d enjoyed taking MacDuff down a peg tonight, the pompous windbag .The nerve of him. Potter had prevented them from being ground under Volvemort’s boot, and he’d be damned if a cowardly paper-pusher like MacDuff was going to talk to him like that. The way Potter look at him had been more than worth it.

Feeling pleased, and somewhat reckless, Draco fell asleep.

* * *

 

Harry might have forgotten about the incident at the Ministry Peace Banquet if _The_ _Daily Prophet_ hadn’t outed him the following week.

He’d run into Justin Finch-Fetchley in Diagon Alley on Monday, and they’d caught up over a drink. It was nice chatting up someone who knew both the muggle and wizard worlds, and wasn’t stunned by Harry’s fame. The Finch-Fletchleys were old money and went to parties with David Beckham and various minor royals. Their tolerance for fame was high.

Justin talked about living in Spain after his family pulled him out of Hogwarts at the outbreak of the war. They reminisced about school and had a good laugh about Lockhart’s duelling lessons. Harry asked if Justin was still scared of snakes. Justin put his hand on Harry’s leg and assuring him that he’d overcome that particular fear. Harry wasn’t exactly drawn to Justin, but he was friendly, and nice-looking, and clearly interested. Feeling flattered and hopeful, Harry ordered a Flaming Flambeau and practiced his flirting.

They’d left just before close, staggering under several rounds of drinks, and Harry had thrown caution to the wind and kissed Justin goodnight. On his way home in a muggle cab, he wondered why he’d been so worried. Sparks hadn’t flown, but it wasn’t all that different from kissing a girl. He smiled sleepily and considered his first-real-kiss-with-a-bloke to be a success.

Harry’s kiss made the front of _The Daily Prophet_ , together with a quote from Finch-Fletchley asserting his heterosexuality in no uncertain terms. _So much for Hufflepuff loyalty_ , Harry thought. They must have been really drunk if neither one of them had spotted the camera.

That lunchtime, Harry sat in The Leaky Cauldron, polyjuiced into a Weasley cousin, pointedly reading _The Quibbler_ , whose cover story was about the endangerment of magical creatures due to habitat loss. Ron had floocalled him that morning, scorned _The Prophet_ staff as a load of twats, and promising to buy all the chips and firewhisky Harry could stomach if they met for lunch. So Harry sat unrecognizable, as witches and wizards nearby gossiped loudly about him. The Slytherins in the next booth were a case in point. He could only see half of them, but he could hear them as clearly as if they were in his lap.

“Read the morning news?” Marcus Flint slapped a copy of _The Prophet_ onto the table. “Chosen Shirtlifter!”

“I don’t believe it.” Pansy Parkinson said. “He could get any witch in Britain. Why would he go basket shopping?”

Harry choked on a laugh. He hadn’t heard that euphemism before, but rather liked it. ‘Hello Sir,’ he imagined himself saying, ‘what a lovely basket! May I take a squeeze? Purely for research purposes.’

Flint sneered at the photo. “Potter’s got his tongue down Finch-Fletchley’s throat.

“Some role model.”Blaise Zabini managed to sound both judgmental and bored.

Flint laughed. “Modelling how to end the Potter bloodline.”

“Leave Potter alone. Both of you.”

Harry’s ears perked up. It was Draco Malfoy, coming to his defence again. Harry shifted his seat until he could see the back of his spiky blonde head.

“Bit close to home, Draco?” Flint teased. “Still got a pash for Potter?”

Harry was suddenly very focussed. Did Flint mean that Malfoy had an interest in him? Or was he only teasing, given their stormy history?

“Let’s not argue over it,” cut in Parkinson. “Who’s buying the next round? I want another Curdled Cannoncleaner.”

“Seriously, Marcus,” Draco said, his voice slow and careful. “Glass houses and all that.”

“I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Not even that muggle cousin you’ve been shagging in Ipswitch?”

When Malfoy spoke Harry couldn’t think of anything except the low, serpentine way his voice moved.

Malfoy gestured elegantly. “What’s her name? Emma? Jemma?”

“You’ve got a muggle cousin?” Parkinson made it sound akin to having a second head, which was a troll.

“What’s it like to do it with a muggle girl?” Goyle asked, his voice more curiosity than malice. “Are they the same? Down there?”

Zabini cupped his nose. “I thought you reeked of muggle.”

Malfoy dropped a handful of coins on the table to cover his drinks. “I’m off. I have work to do and you lot make me sick. Marcus, why don’t you ask Blaise how the Weaslette turned him down when he asked her out in seventh year. Just as well, really. Based on how she’s done with the Harpies this year she’s far too good for you.”

Parkinson let out a horrified shriek at Zabini. “What happened to ‘wouldn’t date a blood traitor’ then?”

“We didn’t date!” Zabini turned desperately to Flint. “Marcus, back me up on this!”

“Sorry.” Flint sneered. “Too busy reeking of muggle.”

Their argument continued, but Harry was watching Malfoy’s broad shoulders weave toward the door and forgot to listen.


	2. Draco's Big House

Draco Malfoy returned from lunch and hurried to his lab to jot down a note about his anti-nightmare potion. He’d need to extend the counter-clockwise stir time and add some wild sage. The damn thing had suppressed his fear centre so well that he’d insulted half his Slytherin friends over Potter. Who cared if The Chosen One was muckling onto Finch-Fletchley? Not Draco! If Potter’s taste ran to pompous half-blood twits, then so be it. Let him live with the ridicule.

He entered his artefacts room to harvest sage from his window box and stopped short. He could feel a dark energy. None of the artefacts should be giving off this kind of emanation. He did a quick inventory but found everything intact. Reaching out with his senses, he moved about the room, tracing the feeling to its source.

He pulled the top off a parchment storage box and was hit by a wave of malevolence. Someone had put a Hopkins Claw inside. Draco sighed. This was the second time an illegal dark object had shown up in the Manor. Draco’s usual go-to, the _Manutransitum Malfoy_ , which detailed any changes to the Manor or its contents, had been surprisingly silent on the subject. He’d strengthened the Manor’s wards but clearly his efforts hadn’t kept the intruder out. Someone wanted to see him in Azkaban, and if he didn’t handle this situation before the Ministry showed up for one of their 'surprise inspections,' that someone would get their wish.

He went to a nearby cupboard and took out the silver gauntlet he used for handling his collection. Slipping it on, he darted his hand forward and grasped the Hopkins Claw firmly. Minutes later, the squirming thing was secure in a bag of salt and herbs. He apparated to Cocklemore Brook and buried the bag in the riverbank, then sat on a log to wait.

It was damp, and stank of dirt and rotting leaves, but Draco stood guard until the groundwater had dispersed the artefact’s dark magic. He could imagine the bloodshed if someone—especially some muggle—came across it at full power. It took forty seven minutes until the Hopkins Claw was rendered inert.

 _Well_ , he thought, _that’s that sorted_.

Back at the Manor, he considered having a sharp word with the house elves about allowing strangers into the Manor, but the poor things couldn’t be everywhere at once. Instead he made a quick trip to Diagon Alley where he picked up a Wilkes Witchwatcher. Once he’d installed it on the door to the artefacts room he felt much better. It would take more than _alohamora_ to get in there now.

* * *

 

Harry frowned at the tawny owl that landed on his breakfast table in the back of number 12 Grimmauld Place. It was a Ministry bird. He detached the envelope and, lacking an owl treat, gave it a chunk of kipper. Knowing he was not universally loved, especially at the Ministry, he tested the letter for booby traps, cracked the seal, and scanned the contents.

Auror Savage wanted him along on another inspection. If he’d become an auror it was the sort of thing he’d get ordered to do, but as a mere citizen they could only ask. Harry liked it that way. He’d had enough of acting on orders he didn’t understand.

Lately he’d been thinking that he’d like to be shot of the Ministry entirely, but every time he broached the subject with Kingsley he got a lecture on civic responsibility. Harry wondered how many times he’d have to die before people thought he’d done his bit and allowed his life to be his own. Still, he always seemed able to justify one more favour, especially when his presence might keep some of the more aggressive aurors in check. He didn’t care for how some of Ron’s colleagues saw everyone as a potential Death Eater.

Harry floo’d to the Ministry and crossed the atrium, headed for the lifts. A nearby hearth flared and Ron hurried through, looking professional in his grey woollen uniform.

Harry was glad that his friendship with Ron hadn’t been damaged by the photo in _The Prophet_. When Ron’d finally shown up at The Leaky, flushed and apologetic for being late, he’d said some disparaging things about Finch-Fletchly, and encouraged Harry to date blokes. It had been awkward as hell when Ron encouraged him to “get back on the broomstick,” but Harry was lucky to have him as a friend.

“Meeting with Savage?” Ron asked. When Harry nodded, his friend broke into a relieved grin. “Brilliant. I’m not late if I show up with you.”

They took the lifts to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and turned down the twisty halls to Auror Savage’s office. Inside, a bevy of Aurors stood at the ready.

“Potter!” Savage barked. “Glad you could make it. Need you as civilian observer on a dark artefact job.”

“Is it Zabini’s?” Ron asked, excited. “I hear his place is full of cursed objects and rare poisons.”

Harry wouldn’t mind raiding Zabini’s.

“It’s Malfoy Manor,” Savage purred. “Information received says young Draco has some unregistered toys.”

Harry frowned. He’d been to the Manor after the war, with a team of unspeakables. Malfoy had an impressive collection of dark artefacts, but they’d all been registered.

“So you’re raiding Malfoy Manor on the say-so of an anonymous source?” Harry asked.

“Have to follow up.” Savage looked grimly pleased as the aurors lined up in front of the fireplace.

“We’re flooing in?” Harry asked.

Ron grinned. “New regulations let us bypass the house wards. No more fanny about at the gates.”

Harry imagined aurors tramping into his own home, and didn’t like that image one bit. He’d be owling Kingsley with his concerns.

The aurors disappeared in a series of green flashes and Harry followed.

The room they entered was a study, albeit a sooty one, its furniture faded and shabby. Malfoy was frowning at the warrant Savage had presented. Harry was surprised to note that Malfoy was wearing a muggle shirt and trousers, even when there wasn’t anyone around to be impressed by how he wasn’t being a pureblood snob. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

“They’re all registered,” Malfoy said. “See for yourself.” He held out a stack of Ministry licences.

“Just doing our job,” Savage said. Harry was reminded unpleasantly of MacDuff.

“Weasley! You’ll need this to get in,” Malfoy passed a small key to Ron. “Try not to break anything. And for Salazar’s sake, don’t unlock the bell jars. I shan’t be responsible if one of you gets turned inside out.”

Harry stayed as the aurors dispersed, feeling as if he should apologize. “Could they really? Get turned inside out, I mean?”

Malfoy shook his head. “They’re under stasis. But they could get a nasty burn from the Hand of Vengeance, and the shrunken vampire head bites on instinct.”

Harry noted the layer of dust and the spell damage in the room. Someone had blasted the hell out of the wall.

“Sorry about the state of things,” Malfoy said, stiffly. “Issues with the house elves.”

“Your mum’s not at home, is she?” Harry asked, picturing Narcissa Malfoy encountering a team of aurors bursting into her boudoir.

“No, thank Merlin! She’s lived in France for almost a year now.”

“Oh.” Harry could think of a dozen reasons Narcissa Malfoy would want to move, but had a harder time imagining why her son choose to stay.

“She owls to complain, of course,” Malfoy said bitterly. “The house elf situation has spread to the Chateau.”

Harry jumped on the topic to fill time without dredging up the war or current news events. “What’s going on with your house elves, exactly?”

Malfoy collapsed into a threadbare armchair and winced as he was jabbed by an errant spring.

“What isn’t? Lost most of them when the Dark Lord and his minions used them for target practice. Then they stopped breeding after Father died. Bandy only takes orders when it suits him, and all Worry does is groom me. My clothes have never looked better but the properties are falling apart. You wouldn’t believe the upkeep on these old piles.”

“Sounds serious.”

“As you can see.” He waved a hand at the disarray. “Mother’s had to hire squib servants at the Chateau.”

“Has a healer been to see the elves?” Harry asked tentatively.

Malfoy looked away. “No one with any expertise will return my owls. Just as no one will sell me any of their surplus house elves.”

“What about hiring butlers or maids?”

Malfoy arched a brow. “Know many wizards keen on being in service, do you?” When Harry didn’t reply he added, “I can’t very well hire muggles, can I?”

Harry supposed not. From down the hall came the sound of smashing glass.

Malfoy sighed. “I’d better floo my solicitor.”

* * *

 

“You should’ve seen the place, ‘Mione,” Ron gloated over spaghetti that evening. “Like a rummage sale.”

“Really?” Hermione pushed a napkin at Ron, who shrugged and continued slurping noodles. “It’s hard to imagine Malfoy letting things get messy.”

“His house elves have stopped breeding,” Harry explained, tearing his garlic bread. “Manor houses require a lot of upkeep, apparently.” He felt oddly defensive of Malfoy, and Ron’s glee at the Manor’s disarray bothered him more than it should.

“Wonder why the elves aren’t reproducing?” Hermione looked thoughtful.

“Can’t stand the thought of their kids working for Malfoy?” Ron suggested, laughing.

Hermione got a gleam in her eye and Harry knew she’d be finding the answer soon. A week later she floo’d into his sitting room, her face aglow.

“I think I know what’s going on with Malfoy’s elves.” She slapped a tiny book onto the table, appropriately called  _The Tiny Book of House Elves_. She riffled through the pages and read aloud.

“Barrenness in house elves has been recorded in cases where the family they serve was expected to perish due to sterility, or due to unnatural sinfulness on the part of the remaining heir.”

Harry contemplated the term “perish.” Lucius was dead, and Narcissa wasn’t in her prime reproductive years, even if she married again. So if the house elves weren’t reproducing it must mean they didn’t expect Draco to have any heirs. He supposed Malfoy must be sterile. He was good looking enough and rich enough to attract a wife, despite the damage Lucius had done to the family name.

“So if Malfoy can’t have kids, his house elves won’t either?”

Hermione looked embarrassed. “Actually, it’s more likely that his house elves won’t reproduce because Malfoy is…not having the sort of sex that results in pregnancy.”

“Oh?” Harry thought for a moment. “Oh! You mean he’s bent?” Harry felt dizzy. After _The Prophet_ outed him Hermione had said that statistically, half a dozen of their schoolmates were likely gay or bisexual as well. Harry had spent some time wondering who those schoolmates might be, and if any of them were single blokes. He hadn’t considered Malfoy, but now that he did, he didn’t mind the idea.

“It’s one explanation.”

“Well he’d better hire some elves,” Harry said, remembering the spell damage in the study, “or the Manor might fall down.”

Hermione looked doubtful. “There aren’t many free elves, Harry.” She pocketed the book. “He should really consider selling.”

Harry found that thought unexpectedly sad.

* * *

 

Draco nodded his thanks to Bandy and took a bite of the grey, over-boiled vegetables on his plate. Bandy wasn’t very skilled in the kitchen and had stopped taking Draco’s tastes into account when preparing meals. Draco wondered if he should take on the cooking himself. Could making soup be all that different from brewing potions?

“Will Master Draco be having guests again soon?” Bandy asked.

“Those weren’t guests,” Draco explained, wearily. “Those were aurors, and they’re not welcome here without a warrant.”

“Does that include Harry Potter, Sir?” Worry asked. The small elf was under the table, polishing Draco’s shoes.

“No.” Technically he supposed Potter was some kind of civilian observer. Draco had expected some abuse from Potter over the state of the Manor, but his concern about the house elves had seemed genuine.

“Potter’s all right.” He forced himself to eat two more mushy sprouts. “At least he’s not the Weasel.”

The ginger berk had barely been able to conceal his glee. Draco took a bite of dreadfully over-salted potatoes and recoiled. He wondered what Weasley was eating that evening. Surely even Granger could cook better than this.


	3. Harry's Big Job

Ron’s comments on Malfoy Manor grated against Harry’s mind. Grimmauld Place had deteriorated just as much as the Manor. Sirius had taken a perverse pleasure in letting the place rot to spite his mother, and the Order of the Phoenix had been too busy fighting a war to worry about cleaning or repair. Harry had kept to the pattern they’d set, but it was his house now, and his responsibility.

He pulled down a heavy book titled _Magical Home Repair_ , and paced slowly as he read. The spells were simple, with photos showing the wand movements. By the look of it, nobody had cleaned the library since the days of Walburga. It took several tries but he got the hang of the wrist snap required to vanish the dust. Having been responsible for dusting the Dursley’s home for so long was a benefit when it came to envisioning the desired effect.

Beneath the grime the walls turned out to be a deep forest green. A polishing charm on the high windows let in the warm Spring sun and the gilt on the leather-bound volumes shone out from the deep shelves. By the time he’d read his way to Chapter 4: Fabulous Floors his stomach was grumbling. He’d forgotten to eat breakfast but the library looked swell.

Harry descended to the kitchen and made himself an omelette. As he chopped mushrooms and vegetables, he thought about how he and Malfoy had both lived with Voldemort. In Harry’s case, having part of the tyrant’s soul in him had increased his anger and shortened his temper. He wondered what it was like for Malfoy having the dark wizard dominate first his father, then the Manor.

Harry broke eggs into a heated pan and considered Malfoy’s claim that nobody would help with his house elf problem. Harry had seen a lot of that since the war ended. Those on the winning side—even wizards like MacDuff, who’d done bugger-all—felt justified getting their digs in at the losers. Harry had a list of Death Eaters he’d love to kick, but most were dead or in Azkaban. Malfoy might have the Dark Mark but he wasn’t Voldemort and he wasn’t his father. He’d proved that already.

Dumbledore had said that our choices make us who we are, and Harry wanted to be someone who helped people. He couldn’t make house elves reproduce, but perhaps he could buy Malfoy time to work things out on his own.

Realizing his eggs were smoking he flipped the omelette and grabbed a plate. A plan was forming in his head.

“Kreacher!”

The elderly house elf appeared with a loud crack. “Yes, Master?”

“I need you to follow Draco Malfoy and let me know when he’ll be away from the Manor for a few hours.”

Kreacher bowed his wrinkly head. “Yes, Master Potter, Sir.”

As he enjoyed his breakfast Harry knew he couldn’t involve Ron or Hermione. They’d already expressed relief that his ‘obsession’ with Malfoy had ended with their leaving Hogwarts. He could point out that Malfoy had defended him at the dinner and again with his friends, but Ron could read nefarious motives into anything. And he wouldn’t understand Harry’s disgust at the way aurors had stomped through Malfoy’s home. Even Kingsley had claimed Harry was overreacting when he’d complained about permitting aurors to bypass house wards.

Harry wondered if his desire to help Malfoy had anything to do with Hermione’s suspicions about the man’s sex life. When the story had broken about Harry’s kiss with Justin she’d owled him a number of embarrassing books and pushed him to make friends in the gay wizard community. Harry didn’t feel that liking blokes was enough to base a friendship on, but the idea that Malfoy might be bent had changed how Harry saw him. Being The Chosen Shirtlifter was bad enough, but at least he didn’t have family pressuring him to produce a blood heir. He wondered if his parents would have done exactly that if they’d lived. He liked to think not.

Kreacher popped in. “Master Malfoy is being with his solicitors all day,” he intoned.

“Thanks, Kreacher.” He grabbed his invisibility cloak, the home repair book, and apparated to Malfoy Manor.

At the edge of the property Harry reached out with his magic and nudged the wards until he found a loose spot. Ron would object, but it was hard to take concerns about illegality seriously from someone who’d helped him break into Gringott’s. Hermione would lecture him on the danger and immorality. Personally, Harry didn’t consider it dangerous (security wards were easy to read) and was it immoral if he was doing it to help someone?

Harry paused. He hadn’t been invited into the Manor any more than the aurors had. That much was true. But Malfoy did need help, and had apparently been rebuffed when he’d asked for it. So that made this an exceptional situation, didn’t it? Harry would fix what he could, then leave. Malfoy would think the elves did it.

The Malfoy wards had been created piecemeal as generations of wizards added whatever security they deemed necessary. First was the layer designed to repel muggles, beggars, itinerants, and merchants. Harry altered those so it stopped inflicting them with a skin ailment. Most of the wards were aimed at those who wished the Malfoys harm, and those ignored him completely. Finally there were wards against thieves and burglars, and this was where the Ministry had installed their own access point, likely to permit them to confiscate items as evidence. Few wards were comprehensive and most had been weakened by Voldemort’s occupation, which had confused the Manor as to its loyalties. Harry slipped inside and repaired them as best he could.

That done, he apparated to the study. Harry had just taken in his surroundings when there was a loud pop and a small house elf in a fluffy pink tea towel appeared.

“Master Draco is not at home!” She squeaked, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Hello,” Harry said, crouching down to see her better. “What’s your name?”

“Worry, Sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Worry. I’m Harry. I’m here to fix the manor up a bit.”

“Is you buying the Manor, Sir?” The house elf looked frightened.

“Not in a million years. I’m just here to pitch in.” He pointed at a lumpy chair and cast a _cathedra_ _reparo,_ forcing the furniture to re-arrange its springs and stuffing.

It took several minutes of reassurance before Worry left, but Harry had pressed upon her the importance of discretion. He liked the idea of helping anonymously. And on the up side, if Malfoy did confront him, it would be with anger rather than fawning thanks. He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

He set to work. Double-checking his references, he attacked the wear and mildew on the shelved books then moved on to the faded and frayed upholstery.

When he finally stopped it was dark outside. He cast a quick _tempus_ , noted the lateness of the hour, and swore. Malfoy could return at any moment. Harry gathered his things and floo’d home.

* * *

 

Draco returned from his solicitors in a foul mood. He’d wanted legal solutions to his house elf problem. Regulations against importing foreign elves were annoyingly tight. His solicitors had advised him all right, their red faces explaining why elves usually stopped reproducing without outright accusing him of buggery. They’d proposed he marry a fertile pureblood witch straight away and identified several candidates. It soon became clear that his mother had corresponded with them extensively on the subject.

Draco poured a firewhiskey, collapsed into a chair, and closed his eyes. He despised his solicitors, especially Niedermayer, whom he suspected had Goblin blood. Draco sighed.

He toyed with the thought of being the last Malfoy. He could die alone, cursing his father for ruining their reputation as the Manor collapsed in ruins. Even as he revelled in the fantasy he knew his pureblood upbringing wouldn’t allow it. He’d have to marry whether he wanted to or not. Probably the younger Greengrass daughter, whatshername. A potion would ensure he could perform. He’d just have to think of England when the time came to do his duty by her.

Unless there was a…darker solution. Surely some previous Slytherin had developed a spell forcing house elves to procreate. Did he dare risk using _imperius_? The thought of it nearly put his off his drink. Perhaps he could grow elves in his laboratory. Better yet, he could grow his own heir. He imagined himself checking on the progress of the foetus as it floated in a jar spelled to mimic a uterus. Then he pictured himself being hauled to Azkaban. There must be laws to prevent that sort of thing.

He was halfway through his drink when he realized that he wasn’t being jabbed in the kidney by the chair’s loose spring. He gestured to brighten the candlelight, and gasped. Gone were the stains on the carpet and the scorch marks on the walls. The books looked solid with no sign of leather blight. The furniture was plush. Even the floors had been polished. It was beautiful and took Draco back to when he’d been a child, before everything had gone to hell.

Draco sighed, feeling his helplessness dissipate. Bandy must have gotten off his arse. At least something had gone right today.


	4. Harry's Big Secret

Harry was on his second week of house repair, both at Grimmauld Place where he’d scoured and re-done two of the bedrooms, and at Malfor Manor. He hadn’t intended to go back but he’d been in Diagon Alley and had heard Malfoy’s voice drifting from the door of Amanuensis Quills.

Harry paused and watched him through the window. He couldn’t hear what the clerk said, but Malfoy was clearly being snubbed.

“Can you please ring me up?” Draco asked, exasperated. “I just want some ink and parchment.”

The clerk spit out some indecipherable words and Malfoy spoke again.

“If I’m such a dangerous Death Eater shouldn’t I get better service?”

The clerk ignored him. Malfoy left, walking down the street to Scribbulus Writing Instruments.

Harry dwelled on the incident all evening, missing most of the Puddlemere United game. Luna was right; Draco wasn’t evil. He’d been a git and a coward but he’d failed rather spectacularly at evil. Which made the way people were treating him a bit like bullying. Harry regretted not saying something to the clerk in Amaneusis Quills.

With guilt sitting in his stomach like a heavy pork pie, Harry waited until Malfoy left then slipped into the Manor. He spent the first three hours repairing a smashed music room then moved on to a games room. The checkerboard floor sported an alarmingly large bloodstain and a damaged cabinet featured every award Draco Malfoy had ever received. Harry repaired the handcrafted woodwork and then set about displaying the Awards of Distinction, Plaques of Recognition, ribbons, and trophies.

One trophy was for a children’s art contest. He recalled the charmed drawing Malfoy had done in third year, of Harry being hit by a bludger and then struck by lightning. He chuckled. It hadn’t been half bad. He wondered if Malfoy still drew.

Harry pondered as he arranged the recognitions in chronological order. Would his father have made a special case to store his Order of Merlin, First Class? He probably wouldn’t have kept it in his sock drawer as Harry did. He finished, installing tiny spotlights on the most impressive quidditch cup—Top Seeker from some wizarding summer camp—and the art trophy, making their polished metal shine. When Harry left he did so satisfied at having set a small corner of the universe back to right.

* * *

 

He wasn’t stalking Malfoy. He really wasn’t. But Harry did see him several times that week and each time he witnessed something that made his stomach tighten. At first he noticed the dirty looks that witches and wizards shot at Malfoy as he passed. One big fellow even purposely knocked Malfoy into a wall. Conscious of not embarrassing the Slytherin, Harry waited before confronting the burly wizard, who seemed shocked Harry would defend a “filthy Death Eater.” To Harry’s ears it sounded all too reminiscent of ‘filthy mudblood.’

Finally, he spotted a gang of young wizards shoot fireworks at Malfoy, laughing when their sparking leprechaun nearly set his cloak alight. Harry chased the miscreants, catching them up by the old Fortesque’s location. Initially impressed to meet him, their enthusiasm quelled when he told them how disappointed he was to see them bullying people. He’d confiscated the remaining fireworks, explaining their parents could owl him for their return. 

Harry felt increasingly powerless. How were they supposed to live in peace if people maintained the cycle of anger and revenge? Of course he was one to talk, with his melt-downs and accidental bursts of magic. The only thing that soothed him lately was slipping into the Manor for a spot of renovation. Slowly, he was erasing every trace of Voldemort from Malfoy’s estate. It felt healing.

Renovation days ended with a hot shower to wash the grime, sweat, and soreness away. Moreover, they left Harry exhausted enough to sleep through the night. And with his mind occupied with new spells he wasn’t dwelling on the war as much. He’d even missed a few of the more annoying Ministry events, ignoring their ever-more-fervent owls in favour of comparing spells for repairing masonry with those for mending wood or fabric. This must be what freedom felt like.

Kreacher reported that Malfoy had a regular Saturday lunch date with Pansy Parkinson, which usually segued into a party at her flat with Goyle and Zabini. Harry wondered whether Malfoy were dating one of the Slytherin men but pushed the uneasy thought to the back of his mind. The important thing was that Malfoy would be away from the Manor.

Kreacher plodded in and presented him with a paper bag. “Lunch,” he announced. “Master Harry needs his strength to restore Malfoy Manor to its former glory.”

Harry accepted the bag, wondering how the ancient elf had figured out what he was doing lately. He supposed Kreacher could read and he hadn’t been hiding the books on home repair. Not for the first time Harry wondered if wizarding homes could communicate with house elves.

Harry apparated to the Manor, where the wards welcomed him in. Magical homes developed character over time and Malfoy Manor had started to like him, perhaps because it understood his good intentions toward it.

Today he was repairing some kind of front room that looked like it had seen literal battle. The chandeliers lay tangled and smashed on the floor. There was a sizable hole in the exterior wall, and as a result the room had acquired mould, rock lichen, wandering peacocks, and a family of badgers. This would be more of a challenge then a bit of _reparo_ but the results would be so much sweeter. Harry rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

He quickly discovered that badgers were inclined toward aggression. Another Hufflepuff stereotype shot to hell. He re-homed them out of doors, healed his scratches and bites, and then began rebuilding the exterior wall.

Letting his magic loose and seeing clear results was exhilarating. He wondered if magical renovation might be the answer to his long-standing ‘what the hell should I do with my life?’ problem. He filled the gap in the wall and then got down to serious cleaning. How could a floor accumulate so thick a layer of peacock droppings in such a short time?

When the space was cleaned he started in on what he liked to call the ‘fiddly bits.’ As he was repairing one of the delicate mullioned windows a posh voice called out to him.

“You there! Boy!”

Harry swivelled, wand in hand, but found the room empty.

“Over here,” the voice said. “Look at me when I address you.”

The voice came from a portrait of a wizard at a writing desk. Harry moved closer, reading a plaque identifying the pointy-faced man as Brutus Malfoy.

“Are you speaking to me?” Harry asked.

“You’re a thick one.” Brutus moved to the front of the canvas. “Not a Malfoy, are you?”

“No, I’m a Potter.”

The wizard brightened. “Related to Raulston Potter perchance?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted.

“You look a bit like him,” Brutus squinted critically at Harry. “Pureblood genes are very strong.”

Harry grinned. “I’m half-blood, actually.”

Brutus recoiled. “What are you doing here?”

“Repairing damage from the war.” Harry demonstrated by restoring a broken windowpane. Recalling the Hogwarts portraits and their penchant for gossip, he added, “It’s a surprise for Master Draco so keep it under your hat, won’t you?” The hat in question was a sort of droopy cap that had likely been very stylish in Brutus’ day.

The wizard’s face relaxed into a familiar look of superiority. “A Malfoy knows when to hold his tongue. Carry on, tradesman.”

Harry grinned. “Yes sir Master Brutus,” he said, in his best Kreacher imitation. “I is being hard at work.”

Harry was true to his word. His window repair had to be paused when he was set upon by doxies, but judicious use of the knockback jinx soon dealt with them. He soaked the drapes in doxicide to get rid of the eggs, as recommended by _Magical Pests and How To Defeat Them_. Within four hours he’d finished the windows, repaired and restrung the chandeliers, reupholstered a dozen chairs and three settees, and replaced the damaged flooring. He’d finished the day filthy and sore but feeling more accomplished than he had since the war. Merlin help the peacock or badger that even considered doing its business on that parquet floor in future.

On Sunday Harry purchased every book on stately magical homes that Flourish and Blott’s carried and even grabbed half a dozen on muggle home repair from Waterstones. Harry wasn’t scholarly like Hermione but the books focused on the practical rather than the theoretical. He read them front to back, his focus only broken when Kreacher pressed him to eat. He practiced the spells on one of Grimmauld Place’s nastier toilets and modified an anti-fungal spell to vanish the black growth he’d found in a bedroom closet.

Monday saw him sneaking back to Wiltshire while Malfoy was at his solicitors again.

Thanks to his reading, Harry had a new mission. He did a walk-through of the Manor, making a list of needed repairs and using a Quillian’s Cartography Quill to map rooms as he passed through them. Malfoy’s dark artefact room had a lock that wouldn’t budge, so he skipped it. He wasn’t eager to get bitten by a shunken vampire head anyhow.

He found a book in the study that detailed the Manor’s history from construction to the present day. The language was so old as to barely count as English but Harry was interested to learn that Malfoy’s ancestor, Armand, had worked with muggles on the French invasion of England in 1066, for which he’d received the land that formed the estate. The Statutes of Secrecy had put an end to deals like that, Harry thought, and no-doubt increased anti-muggle prejudice in pureblood families. The book also described the damage sustained during Voldemort’s tenancy and the problems with upkeep under Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t very forthcoming about the cause of the house elf trouble; perhaps whoever charmed the book hadn’t provided the vocabulary it needed.

Harry spent a late night at home, ranking the repairs the Manor needed. The roof was urgent, and the iron plumbing was leaking into the walls, leading to corrosion, mould, and diminished water pressure. The chimneys needed to be cleaned before they burned the place down. There were boggarts in the attic, ghouls in the cellar, and the heating charms had failed in the east wing. The list went on and on. No wonder Draco was so stressed.

On Wednesday Harry brought his new Firebolt and flew up to the roof. Several sections on the north side were missing tile and in some places the roof was rotted through. Harry cast a tethering spell on himself and set about duplicating the slates. He finished by nightfall and went indoors to start on the plumbing.

Accessing the pipes required a lot of clean-up as generations of Malfoys had used the attic to store quarrelsome portraits, damaged furniture, seasonal items, unappreciated gifts, and useless heirlooms. Harry transfigured a stack of broken chairs into shelves and began to organize the clutter.

One of the boxes contained a set of heavy notebooks. Wondering if they should be moved to the study, Harry flipped one open, expecting elegant handwriting. Instead, he saw a charmed pencil sketch of a young man with an impressively muscled torso, tossing one off on a messy bed. Harry blushed, but was fascinated by the lusty image. The initials DM nestled among the folds of the fabric.

So Malfoy _had_ continued to draw, and he’d gotten pretty good.

The man in the drawing bit his lip and threw his head back, revealing a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Harry’s jaw dropped. He turned the page, seeing more Harrys, some doing things he hadn’t even considered yet. Heat crawling up his face and heart pounding, he closed the book.

Well, that answered his question about Malfoy’s sexuality.

He put the notebook back into the box and levitated it onto the highest shelf. Harry continued sorting the clutter but his mind was on the drawings. Had Malfoy fancied him? Had that been what Marcus Flint had been getting at when he’d teased Draco in the Leaky? What had he said? “Hit close to home?” But if that were true, it was difficult to reconcile the drawings with the way Malfoy had treated Harry in school.

He opened a trunk full of old robes, raising a cloud of dust, and suddenly he was facing a very angry Draco Malfoy.

“Don’t think you’re special just because I scribbled dirty pictures of you!” Malfoy’s chest puffed up beneath his Slytherin robes. “You should’ve seen the ones I did of Blaise. He’s much better looking. Who’d be attracted to you? You’re skinny, boring, and unlovable! Your muggle aunt couldn’t even stand you when you were a baby.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. The Slytherin robes and comments about Petunia meant this wasn’t Malfoy at all. Relief surged through him as he pulled out his wand.

“ _Riddikulus_!”

There was a whip crack and the Malfoy boggart shifted, donning Gryffindor robes and singing the pro-Ron version of ‘Weasley Is Our King’ before turning to smoke and seeping out through a vent. Harry sat, letting his heartbeat return to normal. His boggart has always been a dementor. Why wasn’t it still? He’d prefer a dementor to Malfoy taunting him about being unsexy and unlovable. Harry supposed that answered his own question.

Harry dwelled on the boggart’s harsh words as he sorted through the clutter.

“Cheer up, handsome,” said a portrait of a blonde dandy as he picked it up from the floor. “Don’t let that nasty old boggart distress you. I think you’re gorgeous. You’ve got a lovely back avenue, for starters.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, half laughing. “If I ever want a relationship with an oil painting you’ll be the first I call.” He dusted the saucy portrait and hung it on the wall.

When the room was clear, he started transfiguring the iron piping to copper, as recommended in _Magical Home Repair._ McGonagall would’ve been impressed. This was no furry teacup. Harry could feel how thoroughly the metal shifted. Once the system was entirely copper, he began to make updates. According to the book from Malfoy’s study, the plumbing system had been installed in 1490, and subsequent householders had only added to it. It was a wonder Malfoy had any water pressure at all with so many dead ends and redundant pipes.

When the wards signalled Malfoy’s return Harry apparated home and fell into bed.

* * *

 

Draco realized something was afoot on the first Friday of June, after a night of rather heavy drinking. He woke late and downed an experimental hangover potion. He was pleased with this batch. The mint version reduced his queasiness considerably more than the charcoal version, and tasted miles better. Plus it eliminated his headache by restoring his electrolyte balance and hydrating his body rather than simply blocking the pain so it was healthier all round.

He stepped into his shower contemplating the tweaks he’d make before sending it to Blaise and Pansy, who ran the production and sales end of his business. Almost counting the future galleons, he turned the water on full. Instead of the usual lukewarm trickle he was blasted by a torrent of hot water. Draco leaped back, adjusted the temperature, and then lingered. This was most perfect shower he’d ever had in the Manor. It was likely a last gasp before the ancient plumbing gave up. With that gruesome thought he dried himself and dressed then stalked to the attic to see how bad things were.

He opened the door and stood, shocked into immobility. Where once had snaked a nest of rusty iron, a professional-looking copper system gleamed like a score of French Horns. The change was particularly obvious because the room itself had been organized. Draco walked to a shelf along the far wall that hadn’t been there the last time he was in this room, back when hiding from his fellow Death Eaters had been a daily necessity. All the Malfoy rubbish was still here but it was clean and in some cases, repaired. Someone had even hung up the portrait of Lepus Malfoy, his ponciest ancestor, who winked at him from the far wall.

Draco pointed his wand at the portrait. “Not one word out of you!” Draco had been shocked by some of the comments the portrait had made back then, especially considering that he’d been sixteen and a direct descendant.

“Worry! Bandy!”

There was a cracking sound and his house elves stared up at him with wide eyes.

“Have you been fixing things up here?” he asked.

“No, Master Draco Sir!” Worry said, looking exactly as her name implied. “It was…” She glanced at Bandy who shook his head warningly. “It was The Man.”

“What man?” Draco resisted the urge to beat her about the head as his father would have done.

“The Man Who Fixes Things.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and wished she would make some sense. “The man who…what are you on about?”

Worry kneaded her hands. “The Man comes when Master Draco is out.”

Draco felt his blood run cold. “What does he do?”

“Repairs. Cleans.” Worry looked slightly lovesick. “He did a lovely job on the East Room. It’s not been being that clean since the days of Master Abraxas.”

Draco felt ill. Someone had broken in again. First they were planting unregistered dark artefacts and now they were…cleaning? Nobody in authority would believe him about the dark artefacts and he couldn’t report an intruder who cleaned. They’d laugh him out of the Ministry.

The Manor’s decay must have reached the wards, allowing some random wizard to wander in unsupervised.

“Right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll be in the study.” He needed to consult the _Manutransitum Malfoy_ , which outlined the history of the Manor. If someone had made structural changes his name would be recorded inside. The charm on the book was quite thorough.

Thirty minutes of fruitless searching later Draco concluded he was dealing with someone clever with an alarmingly intimate knowledge of his family. He determined to identify the intruder and retrieve his book. It had been in the family for over five hundred years.

Worry returned with a cup of tea. Draco took the drink and handed her a quill and parchment.

“Make a list of all the changes this repairman has made and when you noticed them.”

Soon he was gripping a long list of repairs the mysterious Man had made to the Manor in the—Merlin’s hairy beard— _four weeks_ he’d been coming by. Draco made a floo call to his solicitors. Niedermayer’s beady eyes peered at him through the flames.

“Mr. Malfoy. What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me the circumstances under which someone might advance a claim on the Manor.”

“Can you be more specific?” Niedermayer wheedled.

Draco sighed. He wasn’t keen to share the details of his domestic mystery. “Suppose a person did unsolicited repairs on a dwelling,” he proposed, “could they make a claim of title?”

Niedermayer looked smug. “If a person occupied one of your properties continually for ten years, such a squatter would be entitled to apply for registration as proprietor. You would, of course, be allowed to oppose the application.

Which Draco would be in no position to do if he’d been sent to Azkaban for possessing an unregistered Hopkins Claw. It was all becoming clear now.

Niedermayer licked his lips. “Such cases are usually seen in relation to properties permitted to become derelict.”

Draco thanked Niedermayer and ended the call before the hideous little man explained how shagging a witch could solve all Draco’s problems. That seemed to be his refrain of late.

He was fairly confident this repair fellow wasn’t living in the Manor. Although given how easily the Man seemed to come and go it was possible that the wards recognized him as having a right of occupancy. He’d better put an end to that before the fellow decided to improve the Manor by slitting Draco’s throat in the night.

He tapped his wand on three books, causing the bookshelves to slide forward and to the sides, revealing a space where the darker texts were stored. Whoever the Man was, he hadn’t found this space. He pulled out dusty copies of _Treacherous Snares_ and _Moste Potente Punishments_. Draco smiled. The next time this burglar showed up he’d regret messing with Malfoy Manor.


	5. Draco's Big Trap

Harry woke excited and leafed through repair books as he ate beans on toast. It was Saturday and Draco would likely be away from the Manor, visiting the Slytherins. This would give him plenty of time to work on the roof of the west wing and get a start on the chimneys. He packed a lunch and collected his reference notes then apparated to the Manor.

No sooner had he set foot on the soil than the wards gripped him. Malfoy had improved security. Good for him.

Harry reached out with his magical core, looking for the changed piece of warding. The new ward was intriguingly specific. Malfoy had realized someone was repairing the Manor and, fool that he was, determined to put a stop to it.

Initially Harry had enjoyed the challenge of learning new spells without a professor (or worse, Hermione) breathing down his neck. Over time, he’d come to enjoy the satisfaction that came with setting things to rights. But more than anything, Harry loved a challenge. And by attempting to bar him from the Manor, Malfoy had thrown down the gauntlet.

Harry grinned. This would be fun.

He followed the threads of the new ward, feeling out its coverage and intent. It only took twenty minutes to slip through, and he felt pleased as he flew up to the roof. Malfoy would try again. Until then, he enjoyed imagining Malfoy’s face when he discovered the new repairs. He took out his wand and went to work.

* * *

 

Draco gulped firewhiskey and grumbled as he flipped through _Moste Potente Punishments_. The intruder had slipped through his wards again. Worry reported that the missing slates on the west wing roof had been replaced on Saturday, and on Sunday three of his chimneys had been stripped of creosote, and one had even had its stonework repointed. Draco was infuriated. He needed a more strenuous ward. Perhaps something slightly… deadly.

A small voice inside him argued that he was only considering extreme measures because he felt powerless. On Monday Draco has acquiesced to the pressure and permitted Niedermayer to initiate negotiations with the Greengrass family for Draco to court their youngest daughter, Astoria. The benefits of such a match were obvious—her family were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and had traditionally been sorted into Slytherin. And they hadn’t been Death Eaters, which would give a nice boost to the Malfoy reputation. Astoria was reportedly of a delicate constitution but her family assured him that she was capable of producing an heir. She sounded suitable enough and he supposed a delicate woman wasn’t likely to make many sexual demands.

Draco felt the bile rise in his throat. It wasn’t that he disliked women. Pansy was a dear friend. But the idea of being intimate with one was as appealing to him as humping a horklump.

Draco supposed he was gay although he hadn’t had an opportunity to confirm that. There’d been bouts of grab-ass in the dorms and one memorable group wank in the prefect’s bathroom, but he’d only been romantically interested in one person and that person was entirely out of reach. He’d never have a boyfriend, now. If negotiations continued he’d be married by the spring and the Greengrasses would demand a fidelity vow.

It was under the influence of depression and expensive firewhisky that Draco installed the most dangerous anti-intruder ward he could find.

* * *

 

Harry hoped to spend a few hours work on the Manor’s heating charms on Wednesday while Malfoy was in Coventry, where Kreacher reported he’d be visiting the Greengrasses. The moment he touched the soil of the Malfoy estate Harry screamed as his skin blistered. Merlin’s ghost! It was like being dipped in boiling treacle.

He’d brought this on himself, he knew. He’d expected Malfoy to increase his security and welcomed the challenge. Well here it was, suffocating him in its scalding clutches. With Malfoy an eight-hour broom flight away and the house elves unlikely to assist, Harry would have to do something drastic.

He concentrated through the pain, and reached out to the wards. They resisted, refusing to alter their structure or mandate. Harry gritted his teeth and tried to quell his panic.

Harry remembered a story about Heinreid The Housebreaker in a book Ron had lent him about wizard criminals and their amusing deaths. The trap had been called, appropriately enough, A Sticky Ende, but the book hadn’t described a solution. He would have to improvise.

He grabbed the house wards and pulled them toward his magical core. He felt along the wards until he found a gap in the spellwork and sealed it with his own magic. The pain lessened, so he did it again and again until the wards viewed him as part of itself. The burning stopped and he fled home to tend to his wounds, thinking that perhaps he’d pushed his hobby too far.

* * *

 

In the privacy of his bathroom, Harry vanished his sticky clothes and began to heal his blisters, using his mirror to get the ones on his back and arse.

“Oooh,” the mirror chided, “Someone’s been through the wars. Missed one on the left thigh.”

“Thanks.” Harry winced as he twisted to reach it.

Harry took a healing potion to deal with the burns, a pain potion to deal with the stinging, and a nip of Dreamless Sleep to knock himself out.

Hours later he was shaken awake by a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Luna looking down at him. He eased to a sitting position and groped for his clothes before remembering that he’d vanished them.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice thick from sleep potion.

“We need to talk, Harry,” Hermione said, unimpressed to find him asleep in the middle of the day. “Join us in the sitting room once you’re decent.”

Harry dressed and wandered downstairs. Ron passed him a mug of tea and led him to where the others were waiting.

Hermione cleared her throat and Neville stepped away from a houseplant he’d been watering.

“Were we supposed to meet up?” Harry asked, staring blearily at his friends.

“No.” Hermione looked grim. “In fact, we haven’t seen much of you lately. You haven’t been answering your owls. The Ministry says you missed their last three social engagements. Everyone’s very worried.”

“Oh.” It was true. Malfoy Manor had taken up a lot of his time, and he couldn’t recall when he’d last spent an evening with friends. Ron and Hermione had stopped by a few times, but he’d always been on his way to bed. He didn’t feel as bad about skipping Ministry events. He’d never enjoyed those anyhow.

“We miss you Mate,” Ron said, looking concerned. “Don’t bother yourself about what the damn papers say. You can like blokes, honest.”

“I know, Ron. I’ve got that handled, thanks.” He sipped the tea, wishing that had sounded less like a reference to masturbation.

Luna smiled. “Hermione’s worried you’re sinking into a depression,” she announced. Ron, Hermione, and Neville shot her a quelling look. “Sorry. Was that a secret? I thought we were here to confront Harry and make him well again.”

“Luna’s right.” Hermione’s voice had the tone she’d used to urge him to revise for exams. “There’s no shame in being depressed.”

“I’m not depressed,” Harry denied. “Not anymore.” Looking back, he could see that he’d been a little lost after the war but the past month had been good, even taking being outed by _The Prophet_ into account. He enjoyed repairing the Manor, solving problems, and breaking through Malfoy’s wards had been stimulating despite his injuries. He liked having a challenge and a secret. It was like old times, but refreshingly free of dark wizards trying to kill him.

“We think you are,” Ron countered. “You’re always knackered.”

“You are,” Hermione confirmed. “Every time we come by you’re sleeping or just woken up.” She held out a piece of parchment. “I made a list of mind healers.”

Harry took the parchment and looked at Ron. “Is she serious?”

Ron shrugged. “You haven’t been yourself, Mate.”

“Being someone else can be very restful,” Luna said.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Harry said, scratching his scalp. “Sorry for not keeping in touch, but I’ve been caught up learning renovation spells.” He gestured toward his books on home repair.

Luna picked up one of the books and went to the window with it.

Hermione picked up _Magical Home Repair_. “You’re renovating Grimmauld Place? That’s a wonderful idea! We’ll all help, won’t we?”

Neville smiled. “I’ve wanted to get my hands on the garden for a while now. The whistling thistlethorn’s taken over something fierce.”

Harry looked thoughtful. Was that what that awful moaning was? He’d been afraid to find out.

“This room could use some work.” Luna poked at the rotten wallpaper with her wand.

“You’re right.” Harry hit the wall with a _reseca cutem_ and the paper began to peel away from the plaster.

Neville pointed toward the garden. “D’yer mind if I have a go?”

“All yours Neville,” Harry said. “Tools in the shed. But be careful. I suspect something out there is carnivorous. Haven’t seen a garden gnome in ages.”

“I think I remember some coveralls in the broom cupboard.” Hermione led the way down the hall and Ron loped after her.

Once they were alone Luna handed him the book she’d been reading. To his horror, Harry realized it was the _Manutransitum Malfoy._

“A fascinating history,” she said. “Especially the last bit.”

“Thanks, Luna.” Harry looked sheepish as he slid the book beneath a couch cushion. If Hermione or Ron learned he’d been breaking into Malfoy Manor then Harry’s being outed and depressed would seem like Christmas at Hogwarts.

Harry spent the next few hours teaching his friends some of the spells he’d learned. The house responded eagerly and they soon disposed of the wallpaper and moved on to refinishing the panelling. Hermione and Ron rolled up the rug and levitated it outside to _scourgify_.

Harry felt pleased as he and Luna cleaned and polished the floor. “I tried a bit of clean-up when I first moved in,” he said, “but it works loads better now.”

“That makes sense,” Luna said, casting at a bit of grime in the corner. “The house recognizes your connection to the Black family.”

“I’m not related to the Blacks,” Harry explained. “Sirius was my godfather.”

“I meant your bond to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa was a Black before she married.”

Harry stiffened. Had what he’d done to escape the Manor’s wards changed him so much that both Luna and Grimmauld Place recognized it? He glanced over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “They can’t tell or they’d have said something.”

Harry supposed they would have. He finished the floor and had moved on to the furniture when Ron and Hermione returned with the rug.

“Blimey!” Ron said. “Your rug was full of ashwinder eggs.”

“You’ve been leaving fires unattended haven’t you Harry?” Hermione chided.

Harry shook his head. “Must’ve been before my time.”

“Be sure you don’t,” she warned, “or you’ll be up to your kneecaps in snakes.”

Neville emerged from the garden, his clothes a shambles. “I sorted that whistling thistlethorn problem but you’re right about the carnivorous plants. I’ll have to get the scythe from my place.” He wiped sweat and soil from his forehead with a dirty arm. “Mind if I wash up?”

“Upstairs,” Harry said. Remembering his own issues with water pressure he added, “Use the one in my room. And help yourself to clean clothes.” He hoped there were some clean clothes. He really should do the wash.

Hermione and Ron promised to come by on the weekend for more renovation, and the evening ended with the five of them enjoying a curry from a nearby shop. Harry sat on the sofa, feeling the _Manutransitum Malfoy_ as a firm lump beneath him.

***


	6. Draco's Big Decision

When Harry returned to the Manor the wards let him through easily.

He repaired the heating charms, did a bit of basic landscaping using techniques Neville had shown him and finally headed to the cellar. He’d put off working down here, where Luna, Dean Thomas, and Mr. Olivander had been imprisoned during the war and where he and Ron been held while Bellatrix LeStrange tortured Hermione. He steeled his nerve, seized by the desire to erase the evidence of Voldemort from the Manor as if that might erase his own bad memories.

He corralled the ghouls into a cigar box then cast _tergio_ until the floor was dry. He identified a crack in the foundation where ground water was bubbling in and set about plugging it. When the cellar was dry and sealed he cast a round of cleaning spells and began experimenting, transfiguring a stack of packing crates and some broken furniture. When he was finished he’d transformed the space from a dungeon to a wine cellar. Finally, a locksmith spell from _Maintaining Your Magical Manorhouse_ generated a key for the door, which he sealed inside the room behind a thin layer of plaster. It was good insurance lest he found himself imprisoned there again.

As he finished the Manor’s wards embrace him, the cellar faded away, and he felt as if he’d plunged his head into a pensieve.

Harry blinked. He was upstairs in the drawing room. He knew immediately that he was seeing the past because he saw himself, his face brutally distorted by Hermione’s stinging jinx. It must be the night they’d been grabbed by snatchers. He moved around as the scene played out, trying to determine whose memory he was seeing but it didn’t have a clear viewpoint. He suspected it might be the memory of the Manor itself.

He saw Lucius, dishevelled and frantic to regain Voldemort’s approval. Narcissus stood by the fireplace, stiff and anxious. Bellatrix vibrated with excitement, eager to present him to her Dark Lord. Draco looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Well Draco?” Lucius gripped his son by the neck and prodded him forward. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”

In the light reflecting off the chandelier Draco’s eyes were sunken and bruised. He kneeled inches from Harry’s swollen face.

Harry moved so he could see Draco more clearly—the mole on the left side of his neck, the veins throbbing at his temples, and the twitch of his jaw. Draco’s grey eyes flickered down and then back at their captive.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t be sure.”

Harry knew it was a lie. Malfoy had known exactly who knelt in front of him. He’d drawn him often enough.

Draco backed away, looking haunted and desperate. Then Bellatrix recognized Godric Gryffindor’s sword and exploded in anger at the snatchers, hexing them within an inch of their lives. Harry followed Draco as he levitated the unconscious snatchers outside.

Malfoy collapsed in the courtyard, gripping his hair with both fists. Harry expected him to scream or swear but the anguished whimpers he made were worse.

Harry felt helpless. Inside he could hear Ron screaming for Hermione as he was dragged to the cellar. Harry couldn’t help Ron just as he couldn’t comfort this crying Malfoy. This had already happened over two years ago now.

“Why did it have to be you, Potter?” Malfoy whispered in a wet voice. “Why has it always been you?” Malfoy hugged himself in a self-soothing gesture. His next words were so low Harry almost missed them. “He can’t save me. He can’t even save himself.”

Malfoy wiped his eyes and stood, gulping air. “Chin up,” he said, his voice steadier now. “We’re a Slytherin. Surviving is what we do.” He returned inside slowly as if walking to his own execution.

Inside Bellatrix was carving ‘mudblood’ into Hermione’s arm. Even knowing it was pointless, Harry reached to grab Bellatrix but his hand passed through her as if she were dust floating in the sun.

The vision began to fade and Harry’s last sight was of the hopeless expression on Malfoy’s face.

As the cellar came back into focus Harry wiped cold sweat from his face. He felt angry. If the Manor was trying to make him feel sorry for Draco Malfoy it could stuff itself. Malfoy had made his own decisions and he’d have to live with them.

He apparated home, determined not to allow himself to be manipulated. But as he climbed into bed that night he wondered if Malfoy had really hoped Harry would save him from Voldemort. As he drifted off, Harry wished that he had.

* * *

 

Draco returned home early on Saturday due to an argument with Pansy about his impending nuptials. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t simply sell the manor, buy a flat in London and tell everyone to go hang. He was met by Bandy and Worry, which couldn’t be good.

“Master Draco is wanting to see the cellar,” Worry said.

Draco felt a headache coming on that had nothing to do with Pansy’s tendency to serve vodka as if it were water.

“What’s wrong with the cellar?”

“Nothing is very wrong!” The house elf insisted. “Nothing is also wrong with the garden and the heating charms.”

Draco turned to Bandy. “Can you talk sense?”

“The Man was here,” Bandy explained in his deep rasping voice.

“Was he, by Godric!” Draco strode across the room and down the stairs, half expecting to find a body. Instead he stepped into an empty wine cellar.

Draco wandered, bending slightly to accommodate the low ceiling. It would need work and he’d want a wine wizard to cast temperature controls before he stored decent vintages here, but it wasn’t bad. Slightly plebeian in style but it gave him a glimpse into the aesthetics of his illicit visitor.

Speaking of whom, how in the name of Merlin’s gallstones had the man passed through his wards again? Draco really needed the _Manutransitum._

* * *

 

Harry dreamed about a room he didn’t recognize. It was lavish with an enormous Persian rug, armchairs by the fireplace, a magnificently carved wooden desk, and a four-poster bed. The windows were open and the air was hot and sticky. Harry hard a groan from the bed and approached it wand in hand.

As the bed’s occupant came into view and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. There in the twisted sheets lay a very naked Draco Malfoy, breathing heavily and canting his hips as if in the grip of some erotic dream of his own.

Harry blushed and turned away, but the moaning ignited his imagination almost as much as the sight had. He’d say this for him, Draco was fit.

Harry supposed this was some sort of gay sex dream. But if his subconscious thought he was going to initiate something with a sleeping Malfoy it had another think coming.

He headed for the fireplace, grabbed a fistful of floo powder and tossed it at his feet, announcing Grimmauld Place as his destination. As he did he could have sworn he heard Draco moan his name.

Harry sat up in bed and looked around the dark room to get his bearings.

This wasn’t the first dream he’d had about Malfoy since he’d patched the Manor’s wards with his own magic last week. On Thursday there’d been one about Malfoy as a child, announcing that he wanted to marry Bulgarian quidditch player Bogomil Lazarov. Lucius had launched into a tirade about pureblood responsibility. The dream had ended with Lucius cursing Draco’s posters of Lazarov to ash as Draco cried. Harry had chalked it up to spending so much time at the Manor and his own sexuality issues. He’d even developed a theory about how Lucius represented his fears of abandonment.

Another had featured a first-year Draco at Christmas dinner, explaining that Harry Potter had rejected his friendship. Lucius had opined that given Potter’s preference for mudbloods and blood traitors it was just as well that Draco’s offer of an alliance had been rebuffed. His mother had asked after Draco’s friends in Slytherin but Harry remembered the hurt on the little boy’s face. It was certainly not a look Harry had seen on him at Hogwarts.

Some voice in the back of his mind (sounding suspiciously like Hermione) suggested that maybe these dreams weren’t just his subconscious processing events. That part of his mind wondered if they were dreams at all. Harry supposed the Manor could be pulling him into its memories. He wondered if the dangerous side effects of Dreamless Sleep were worth avoiding forays into Malfoy’s past. Perhaps if he could figure out what the Manor wanted from him he could stop the dreams at their source. Given the theme of sexuality and friendship maybe a conversation about coming out would do the trick. Hermione insisted Harry needed support for his own coming out and while Harry was fine without it maybe that wasn’t the case for Malfoy.

Harry ate a hearty breakfast. He was fixing his own plumbing today, and looking forward to it. He headed to the cellar and as he worked, he considered what he might say to Malfoy. How did one help a longtime enemy turned casual acquaintance come out in a hostile pureblood wizarding culture?

As Harry completed his conversions in the cellar and moved on to the first floor loo, he pondered whether Draco’s issue might not be coming out so much as having an accepting friend. Harry had benefitted enormously from Ron’s approval and even Hermione’s rain of embarrassing information showed she cared. Perhaps it was time to take Malfoy up on that handshake he’d offered in first year. At the least it might prevent Harry from developing an unhealthy dependence on Dreamless Sleep.

He put in a floo call to Neville.

“Hullo Harry,” Neville said. “You look a fright.”

Harry pulled a piece of plaster from his hair. “You’ll eat your words when everyone's plastering their hair this season. Listen, where do posh wizards go for lunch these days?”

“Tired of curry takeaway?” Neville teased.

“Impossible. But I do have a sort of business meeting.”

Neville’s face looked thoughtful in the embers. “You could try Bridgewater Bachelors Club. Been ‘round since the eighteenth century. They do a nice brunch.”

Harry scribbled the name on a scrap of parchment. “Bachelors Club? Sounds a bit…” He hesitated to say ‘gay,’ and tried a different approach. “What sort of place is it?”

“Very traditional. Got a dresscode and costs galleons just to have tea there. They’re usually booked up but I bet your name would get you in.”

He thanked Neville and they made arrangements to attack Harry’s garden again on Saturday.

Harry sat at an old writing desk and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. He owled Bridgewater’s first to see if he could get a table. If Malfoy didn’t appreciate the conversation he’d at least enjoy eating someplace expensive that required name-dropping.

* * *

 

An incessant tapping caused Draco to pause in his potion work and he turned to see a Post Owl at the window of his study. Given all the howlers the family had received after the war, owls were now intercepted by the house elves. Since this one had made it past it was likely his mother demanding to know how courtship negotiations with the Greengrass family were progressing.

Draco accepted the letter, fed the owl a treat and sent it on its way. He cracked the seal and opened the parchment but instead of his mother’s elegant script he faced the childlike printing of Harry Potter.

‘Dear Malfoy,’ the letter began, ‘I hope you will join me for brunch on Sunday at noon at the Bridgewater Bachelor’s Club. My treat. Sincerely, Harry Potter.’

Draco raised an eyebrow. He always figured Potter would use ‘OM (first class)’ after his name. He’d certainly earned the right to. Trust Potter to learn humility only after saving the entire wizarding world.

He read the letter again. Bridgewater’s was exclusive and expensive; if Potter was paying he should at least find out what he wanted. Although…. Draco though about the photo of Potter locking lips with Finch-Fletchley and his whole world ground to a halt.

Was Potter asking him on a date?

He needed an objective opinion. Gripping the letter, he floo’d through to Pansy’s.

“Grab a drink!” she called from her bedroom. “I’m just changing.”

Draco settled into one of her boxy modern armchairs and stared at the letter, as if additional words would appear, making the nature of the invitation clear.

Pansy emerged in a skin-tight mini-dress with a crushed velvet blazer and did a spin to show off her ensemble. “What do you think?”

“Is it muggle?’

Pansy tugged on the blazer. “Muggle style. Gladrags did it.”

Draco took in the alarmingly high hemline. “Shows enough thigh. Trolling for a man?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Looking to borrow a cup?”

“Speaking of which,” Draco showed her the letter. “What do you make of it? Is Potter taking the piss?”

Pansy’s short nose wrinkled. “Sounds like he’s asking you out.”

Draco took the letter back, frowning. “He can’t be. Even if Potter were dating men he’d hardly pick one who’d kicked him in the face, would he?”

“There’s no accounting for taste. Are you going?”

“Would you go if it were you?”

Pansy clicked her manicured nails against the metal arm of her sofa. “Tricky. In the plus column, he’s rich. He’s got the Potter fortune from all that Skele-Gro and Pepper-Up, and the Black money from that criminal godfather of his. So there’s that.”

Trust Pansy to start with money.

“Plus he’s fit. Quidditch is boring as dirt but it does make for a nice arse.”

“Disagree about the boring. Agree about the arse.”

“And he’s famous. If he can get a table at Bridgewater’s imagine what other doors he could open for you.”

“I’m not looking to use his fame.”

“I didn’t say you _were_ , only that you _could_.” She waved a tiny hand. “On the downside, being seen with him won’t exactly endear you to your future in-laws.”

“Sod the Greengrasses,” Draco muttered. Their most recent meeting had not gone well, with Cronus Greengrass taking one look at Draco’s muggle clothes and saying that he hoped he “wasn’t one of those blood-traitors we see so much nowadays.” Adding to Draco’s concern was the family’s reluctance to specify what ailed their youngest daughter. He’d set Niedermayer to look into it.

Pansy made an uncouth sound with her mouth. “If you’re not worried about people thinking you’re on the turn for Potter, then go. I’m dying to know what he wants.” She pouted. “Unless he wants to hex you.”

“He’d hardly choose Bridgewater's for that would he?”

“I suppose not.”

“But what if it’s a date?”

“Then you’d better look so dishy that he trips over his tongue.”

Draco crossed his arms. “I haven’t anything to wear.” Potter had already seen his best muggle suit at that boring Ministry function.

Pansy’s eyes lit up. “Shopping. Lovely. I'm in.”

Draco smirked at her. "Shopping in Muggle London?"

She shrugged. "Even that."

* * *

 

Harry woke on Sunday morning feeling unnerved. He’d received Draco’s owl the day before, accepting his invitation. Neville had arrived during breakfast and joined Harry in some bangers and mash before heading out to the garden where they put in a stone walkway. When Ron and Hermione arrived they joined in for a bit then went to work on the kitchen and dining room.

Later, as they ate pizza on the back patio and Hermione described her progress on the enfranchisement of magical creatures, Harry felt pleased. He and Neville had made excellent progress. He’d soon be able to go barefoot in the garden without losing his toes to Omnivorous Buttercup. Neville had even shown him how to unfold the back lawn until it was big enough for a seekers game. If he got on well with Malfoy he could have him over sometime.

That night Harry dreamed of a teenaged Malfoy sneaking down the back stairs and into the Manor kitchen where a handful of elves were preparing dinner. Malfoy waved over an elderly female elf wearing a tea cosy. He cast a number of privacy charms before speaking.

“Tell me Natter,” he asked, “can you keep a secret if I ask you to?”

The house elf nodded solemnly. “Natter is keeping all Master Draco’s secrets.”

Malfoy still looked nervous. “Even from Father?”

The elf considered this. “Unless Master Lucius is asking Natter directly as an order.”

“And from…” Malfoy looked away, “from _Him_ as well?”

Harry knew from Malfoy’s tone that he was referring to Voldemort. What could Malfoy want to keep secret from both his father and Voldemort?

Natter considered this. “Natter couldn’t say, Sir. He is a very powerful wizard.”

Draco nodded like he’d come to an unpleasant decision. “Who’s serving at table this evening?”

“Bandy and Wimple are serving the guests tonight.”

Malfoy exhaled derisively. “Guests!” There was a banging of pots in the kitchen and he flinched.

“Have the uh, guests in the cellar been fed yet?”

“No, Sir. Not since their arrival.”

“Right. Take them some of the soup, pheasant and bread. Don’t tell anyone and for Merlin’s sake don’t let anyone see you. Bring the plates and cutlery right back. Understood?”

“Yes Master Draco.”

“Good.” Malfoy looked sad. “Meet me here after dinner.”

The house elf nodded and Malfoy dismissed her.

The dream sped quickly through a tense dinner with the Death Eaters and then slowed as Malfoy slipped away from the group drinking brandy in the sitting room and returned to the kitchen.

“Well?” Malfoy asked as Natter approached. “Did you do it?”

“Yes Sir Master Draco. The guests were very grateful.”

“And nobody saw you?”

Natter shook her head. “No Sir.”

“Good.” Draco pulled out his want and pointed it at the house elf. “ _Damnatio memoriae._ ” The elf’s eyes glazed over. “Some of the food was spoiled,” Malfoy told her. You chucked it in the bin.”

“Some of the food was spoiled,” she repeated. “Natter chucked it in the bin.”

“That’s right.” Malfoy put his wand away looking relieved. “What’s on for dinner tomorrow?”

The house elf looked dazed but quickly replied. “Venison and lamb, Sir, with haricots vert and potatoes Salazar.”

Malfoy nodded. “Good. Meet me here before dinner tomorrow. Tell no one.”

Natter nodded. “Yes Master Draco Sir.”

Draco turned and hurried up the stairs to his room, barricading the door with a series of spells before falling into an armchair by the fire.

“Nice going Draco,” he muttered bitterly. “You’re going to cause lasting brain damage to the elf that used to change your nappies.”

Harry sat up and drained the water he kept by his bedside. Could Malfoy really have ordered his house elf to feed the prisoners in the cellar? Harry had an easy time believing he’d use a memory altering charm but if his dream were true, Malfoy had felt bad about that. Harry wondered if Natter were one of the elves killed by the Death Eaters.

He couldn’t broach the subject with Malfoy without explaining about the dreams and his connection to the Manor. Still, he’d like to know before he sat down to brunch with him.

Harry threw on his dressing gown and went to the library, where he knelt in front of the fireplace and made a floo call to Luna Lovegood.

“Hullo, Harry,” Luna said. She was standing close to her hearth so at first all Harry could see of her was her striped socks. Then she leaned down to face him. “You’re looking well.”

“Thanks, Luna.” Harry plunged ahead before she introduced a subject such as the Rotfang Conspiracy. “Sorry if this is a touchy subject but when you were imprisoned at Malfoy Manor did they feed you?”

“Not at first,” Luna said, not looking bothered in the slightest. “I suppose the Death Eaters had too much on their minds to think of hospitality. Toppling the Ministry must have been very stressful for them.”

Harry was astounded by Luna’s ability to consider the feelings of others. As far as he was concerned if the Death Eaters wanted a less stressful life they shouldn’t have terrorized people.

“But later?” he prodded. “They fed you later?”

Luna sat cross-legged in front of the fire. “Oh yes! I remember the first meal very well. Lovely pea soup and bread and a sort of tiny chicken. Dean tried to multiply the meat with wandless magic but he wasn’t very successful.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Wandless magic was difficult and using it for transfiguration was particularly so.

“It did turn a lovely shade of blue,” Luna added.

“Right.” Luna’s recollection matched the dream closely enough. “Thanks. Will I be seeing you for Chinese takeaway night?”

“Unless Gewnog Jones lets me interview her for _The Quibbler_. I’m dying to ask about the impact of wrackspurts on the Harpies game strategy.”

“Good luck with that.” Harry wished her a pleasant day and ended the call.

For several minutes he sat by the fire. He was glad his dream turned out to be true. He wanted to like this older Malfoy and it would help if he wasn’t heartless and cowardly. If he’d risked retaliation from Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy to feed Luna, Dean, and Mr. Olivander then Draco was neither.

Harry returned to his room and looked at the dress robes laid out on a chair by the bed. He kept formal clothes for Ministry events and he couldn’t support Malfoy’s coming out process if he got turned away at the door for looking shabby.


	7. The Big Brunch

Harry arrived at the Bridgewater Bachelors Club ten minutes early and an elderly wizard in a frockcoat welcomed him inside.

“Welcome to Bridgewater’s, Mister Potter.”

“Thanks.” Harry had grown accustomed to strangers knowing who he was but it felt a little odd nonetheless. “I have a booking for brunch.”

“Of course.” The man bowed. “May I take your cloak, sir?”

“Oh yeah.” Harry shrugged out of the heavy garment and adjusted his tie, feeling self-conscious.

The doorman gestured toward the broad stair. “Trumble will be pleased to seat you, Mister Potter.”

Harry walked upstairs and was met by an elegant man in a frockcoat.

“A pleasure to have you at Bridgewater’s, Mister Potter.”

“Just Harry’s fine. Really.”

“You’ll find we’re quite formal here, Sir.”

Harry looked up at the high ceiling with its sumptuous enchanted plasterwork. He was definitely getting that impression.

“I’m meeting Draco Malfoy,” he said.

The host’s eyes widened but he recovered quickly. “Very good, Sir. Allow me to show you to your table.”

Harry followed the tall man to a private spot near the windows and Trumble assured him that a server would be along momentarily. Harry picked up the menu and was soon greeted by a waiter who introduced himself as Logan and took his drink order. By the time Malfoy arrived Harry was sipping an expensive brand of butterbeer.

“Hello, Potter.”

Malfoy looked quite smart in a grey muggle suit with a dark vest. It brought out his eyes and hugged his lean frame. Harry stood then wondered if he should have. Wasn’t that only done for ladies? He couldn’t remember.

“Malfoy.” He extended a hand which Malfoy shook somewhat hesitantly. “Thanks for coming.”

Malfoy gave Logan his drink order and perused the menu, looking not at all baffled by it. Harry supposed Malfoy had started going to fancy places like this as a child.

“I haven’t eaten here before,” Harry admitted. “Do you suppose they do fish and chips?”

“Never order fish on Sunday,” Malfoy advised, arranging his napkin on his lap. “It won’t be fresh.”

“What do you recommend?”

Malfoy looked pleased. “Their beef Wellington is excellent.”

“Sounds good.”

Logan appeared with Malfoy’s firewhisky and Harry smiled up at him. “I’d like the beef Wellington, please.”

“Same for me. Medium rare on both with the Château Duhart-Milon Bordeaux and we’ll have the omelette with black truffle to start.”

Harry thought that a heavy meal for brunch but said nothing.

“So,” Malfoy said when they were alone. “What’s this all about, Potter?”

“Call me Harry. Hogwarts was a long time ago.” He tried not to think about his dreams but found it nigh impossible. Draco’s vest hugged his chest nicely and Harry recalled the naked bed dream in vivid detail.

“Okay.” Malfoy drank from his water glass. “What’s this all about, Harry?” He said the name as if seeing how it tasted.

Harry figured his recent outing was as good a place to start as any. “You saw the article in _The Prophet_?”

“I did. Not sure they captured your good side. Are you taking his name or is he taking yours? Although Fletchly-Potter has a nice ring, don’t you think?” Malfoy teased.

Harry groaned and slapped a hand to his face. “We’re not…it’s not like that.”

Malfoy smirked, looking more like the boy Harry remembered from school. “Is this the part where you vigorously assert your heterosexuality? Let’s hear it. Merlin knows I could use a good laugh.”

Harry shook his head and took a sip of butterbeer. “I’m not straight. Best as I can tell I’m bisexual or pansexual or something like that.”

Malfoy paled. He clearly hadn’t expected honesty.

It was Harry’s turn to smirk. “Is this the part where you assert _your_ heterosexuality Draco? Go on, then. Give it a go.”

“I don’t recall inviting you to use my first name.”

Harry grinned. “Are you going to?”

Malfoy relaxed. “Very well. Call me Draco.”

Logan arrived with their omelettes and refilled their water glasses.

Harry swallowed a mouthful of omelette. It was buttery and delicious. “Hermione has a theory about your house elf problem,” he said.

Draco sighed. “If it’s to do with me being a raging queen you can save your breath.”

“I wouldn’t have put it like that.” Harry frowned. “This omelette is very good.”

“It should be, at over a galleon apiece.”

Harry gulped. Neville hadn’t been joking. This was going to cost way more than curry takeaway.

“So are you?” Harry asked. “Gay or whatever?”

Draco looked across the table as if trying to use _legilimency_ on him. “Yes,” he said finally. “I’m 99% gay and 1% whatever.” Seeing Harry’s confusion, he added, “I’d make an exception for Celestina Warbeck. I’m not a fool.”

“Isn’t she like, eighty?” Harry asked. He considered adding that she was also a half-blood but held his tongue.

“Eighty’s not old for a witch,” Draco countered. “And I’m talking sex not marriage. Although if she were unattached I might consider it.” He finished his omelette and set his cutlery on the plate. “Solve one of my problems at least.”

Harry grinned. This was going better than he’d hoped. Now might be the time to broach the subject of support. Then perhaps the Manor would stop invading his dreams.

“I don’t have any gay friends,” he started.

Just then, Logan swooped in to clear their plates, pour their wine and serve their Wellington. The pastry was golden and crispy and the meat moist and flush, sitting in a red sauce.

Harry tried again. “Hermione says support is important for coming out.” When Draco looked confused, he added, “For telling people I’m gay.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Draco tucked into his food, leaving Harry to ponder his answer.

“Well most of them already know,” He said, cutting into his beef with a fork. “That picture didn’t leave much to the imagination.”

“It’ll blow over,” Draco assured him. “If you like I can recommend a good public relations witch. Get you seen at a few parties with the right sort of women. By September nobody will remember this Finch-Fletchly business.”

Having lived in an actual cupboard, Harry had no intention of occupying a closet even in the metaphorical sense. “I want to be myself. Like anyone I like. Be seen with whomever I want.”

“And you want me?” Draco looked amused by the flush that rushed up Harry’s face. “You know it hurts your reputation to be seen with me, especially at Bridgewater’s.” He gestured with a long slim hand. “It might look like a date.”

“But you came anyway.” Harry’s face brightened. “Do you not mind people thinking we’re on a date, then?”

“Eat your Wellington, Harry, before it cools.”

* * *

 

Draco bit his lip. The food and wine had been excellent but he felt as if he’d barely scraped the surface of Harry’s motives for the invitation. Best as he could tell it was a gesture of friendship with possible romantic overtones. He needed more time.

“Are you up for dessert?”

Harry grinned. “You know it’s after two in the afternoon?”

“Am I keeping you from something?”

“No.” Harry waved a hand. “I’m a gentleman of leisure at the moment.”

“I thought you and the Weasel were going to be aurors together.”

“Don’t call Ron that,” Harry said. “And we did. Only it turns out I’m not very good at taking orders.”

Draco laughed. “No respect for authority. I could’ve told them that.”

“I like making my own decisions for a change.” Harry polished off the last of his wine. “How about you? Thought you’d be a potions master by now.”

“I couldn’t get hired anywhere but I keep my hand in. The laboratory at the Manor isn’t much but I’ve developed an anxiety potion that’s doing well. It’s not outselling the Calming Draught but at least it doesn’t taste like chalk.”

“Wait, you’re not talking about Chillax, are you?”

“You’ve heard of it?” Draco was please to realize that Pansy’s marketing campaign had reached the proper social circles.

“I use it before those horrid Ministry events,” Harry said, his smile slightly lopsided. “Tastes like raspberries.”

Draco closed the dessert menu. “If you like raspberries, we should order the mille feuille.”

“I’m getting rather stuffed,” Harry warned.

“We can share an order if you like. Although then people will almost certainly think this is a date.”

Harry snorted. “Love to see Justin’s face if you and I made the cover of _The Prophet_.”

Draco made the request to Logan who returned with the pastry.

Draco handed Harry a fork. “I’d love to see the scowl on Cronus Greengrass's.”

“Who’s that?”

“My future father-in-law.”

Harry coughed into his napkin, looking ill. “You’re getting married? To a witch?”

“As you so cleverly sussed out earlier, my problems with the Manor are because my family line is about to be extinguished. I need an heir, ergo, I need a wife.”

Harry looked shocked. “So you’re going to marry the first witch who’ll have you?”

“Not exactly. If I’m to be trapped in a loveless marriage it may as well be with a wealthy pureblood.” Draco sighed. “My father would be dancing in his grave.”

Harry’s face looked thoughtful, “So you’re marrying…Daphne, is it?”

Draco shook his head. “The other one. She’s unwell though, so perhaps not."

“Can’t you adopt an heir?” Having been an orphan himself, Harry had always liked the idea of adopting. He knew he could love a child even if they weren’t biologically related and he was pretty sure he could do a damn sight better for an adopted child than the Dursleys had done for him. He wondered if Voldemort might have made better choices if he’d had a loving parent to guide him.

“I could,” Draco agreed, “but it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. We’re talking ancient blood magic, Harry. All my ancestors cared about was the bloodline so that’s all the Manor cares about.”

Harry picked at the dessert with his fork. “What about surrogacy?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s when a woman carries a baby for you. The baby would be part of your bloodline but you don’t marry the mother.”

“You’re suggesting I get some random witch up the duff with a Malfoy bastard?”

“No, it’s different. I don’t know how it works. There’s some kind of science involved.” Harry supposed he’d understand it better if he’d attended muggle school longer.

Draco snorted. “If a witch agreed to carry a child for me the Ministry’d be testing her for the _Imperius_ curse on a daily basis.”

Harry laughed. “They probably would!” He helped himself to a forkful of the raspberry mille feuilles. It was perfect.


	8. The Big Dinner

Brunch with Draco cost a staggering 86 galleons. Harry paid, waving away Draco’s attempt to split the bill.

“You can get the next one,” he offered.

“We’re doing this again?” Draco accepted his cloak and nodded thanks to Trumble.

“I’d like to.” Harry slipped into his own cloak. “If you’re not afraid to be seen with The Chosen Shirtlifter.”

Draco smirked. “I’ll take my chances, Harry.”

Using what he knew of Draco’s schedule, Harry decided to push his luck. “How about dinner at the Leaky this Thursday?”

Draco looked pensive.

“Too plebeian for you?” Harry teased.

Draco shook his head. “Not at all. But I’ll have to check my schedule. Can I owl you to confirm?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Brilliant.”

They stepped onto the sidewalk and Draco turned to face him.

“This was fun. Thanks.”

“My pleasure. I’ll wait for your owl.”

Draco gave a short sharp nod. “If I’m not free on Thursday we’ll find a day. A Malfoy pays his debts.”

There was an awkward moment where Harry wondered if they were supposed to shake hands or embrace. He imagined sliding in close to Draco’s vest and decided it was safer all round if they shook hands. 

“Well then,” he said. “Be seeing you.” He extended a hand and Draco shook it in both of his.

“Yes. Definitely.” Draco smiled, looking young and happy. Harry felt the pleasure at Draco’s cheerful expression linger long after he apparated, like the grin of a Cheshire Cat.

* * *

 

Draco’s owl arrived on Tuesday morning by which time Harry’s nerves were burnt to a frazzle. He’d passed the time finishing renovations on Grimmauld Place. He’d even taken his memorabilia out of its box and arranged all the items on the wall of the sitting room. His posters were nicely framed as were some choice covers of _The Prophet,_ his favourite being “The Boy Who Lies?" His ‘Potter Stinks’ badge was in a shadow box and moved through its images of Cedric and himself when you walked near.

Harry was pleased. Grimmauld Place was no Malfoy Manor, but it was clean and bright and more welcoming than he’d ever seen it. It just felt friendlier, as if the house was pleased with him. He had his friends over that evening and they split three bottles of wine and ate an enormous order of Chinese food.

Harry sat and ate, enjoying the company and thinking ahead to his dinner date with Malfoy at The Leaky Cauldron. Well maybe not a date exactly. Although he wouldn’t really mind if it were and that itself was odd. Still, he felt happy and excited and he meant to enjoy it before he shared it with anyone.

“The place looks so good you could have people over,” Hermione suggested.

“I am having people over,” Harry pointed out. “You’re here now.”

“I meant for dates, Harry. You could have someone back to your place. Dinners, romance?”

“Suppose I could.” Harry wondered what Draco would think of the place considering it had once belonged to his mother’s family. Come to think of it, perhaps he’d like some of the Black family stuff Harry had moved to the attic. Maybe he could have him over on the weekend for attic browsing and dinner.

“I could introduce you to a few gay wizards,” Neville said. “I met lots of nice blokes in that botanical magic course last summer.”

Neville’s offer cut into Harry’s thoughts about what he might cook for Draco.

“Uh thanks but no. I’m fine at the moment.”

“Do you fancy witches at all?” Luna asked. She’d arrived just in time to devour the Singapore style vermicelli.

“Sure. Celestina Warbeck’s looking good.” He laughed as if sharing a private joke with Draco.

“She does have lovely style,” Luna acknowledged.

Ron began to explain why Harry wouldn’t have a shot with Warbeck, which involved a long story in which her every previous relationship was presented as evidence of her destiny to be with songwriter Irving Warble. “You only have to listen to Cauldron of Hot, Strong, Love,” Ron explained. “It’s all in there.”

“What about Fox from the Department of Mysteries? He’s good looking. Is he single?” Hermione asked Ron.

“You notice which of my coworkers are good looking?” Ron asked, slightly aghast.

“I’m extremely observant,” Hermione said in her own defence.

“What about the younger Creevy brother?” Ron countered. “Dennis?”

“Bit young isn’t he?” Hermione asked. “Think he’s still in school.”

“He’s age of majority,” Luna informed them. “He’s only a year younger than I am.”

“Enough!” Harry raised his voice. If his friends had plans of setting him up he’d better nip it in the bud. “When I’m ready to date I can ask someone all by myself. Really.”

And he would get around to dating eventually. He just needed to get this business with Draco sorted first.

* * *

 

Pansy floo’d into Draco’s study and looked round with a critical eye made decorative by an eyelash extending charm.

“This looks nice. House elves finally getting their act together or did you do it yourself?”

“Neither,” Draco growled. He’d rather not think about the intruder even if he had done a splendid job. Draco had visited all the rooms on the list Worry provided and he had to admit the bastard had a flair for cleaning and damage reversal. He’d never have recognized the front room and the trophy room was much nicer without the enormous bloodstain.

“So dish then,” Pansy was saying. “How was brunch? I see you’re still of a piece so he can’t have hexed you. What did Potter want?”

“It’s ‘Harry’ now. He wants us to be friends.” Out of all the odd things happening in his life lately this had to be the strangest. Harry Potter wanted to let bygones be bygones in favour of being mates. Or possibly more than mates given his indifference to having people think they were on a date. It was difficult to get a read on him.

“You and Potter?” Pansy’s face took on that serious quality it got when unravelling any puzzle of social power. “Being friends with Potter raises your social stock and broadens your range of potential wives which increases your bargaining power in negotiations with Cronus Greengrass—” she cut off abruptly as she looked up and saw his face. “Oh!” she said at last. “You like him. Not Greengrass—Yuck!—I mean Potter. You _like_ him.”

Draco nodded, looking more concerned than ever.

“Well this is new. I’ve never seen you _like_ someone before. Are you sure it’s not gratitude?”

“Shut it, Pans.”

“Okay.” She nodded and chewed her lip, mindless to how perfectly it had been painted. “Then you can’t marry Astoria.”

“What about the Malfoy name? The estates?”

“Let them burn.”

“Easy for you to say. You wouldn’t know Duty if it walked up and _scourgified_ you.”

“You can marry all the pureblood witches in England, Draco. It won’t make you stop liking Potter.” Pansy had a gift for reiterating the obvious in varying tones of voice and did so until she left later that afternoon.

Draco did some paperwork in his lab and then gave the place a cleaning. He rubbed his thumb across the lid of the cauldron, seeing how it shifted on the table. The feet were going, as he’d feared. When that happened the cauldron wobbled as you stirred, causing random effects. He’d need a new professional grade cauldron and it would cost a packet. What dreadful timing! He’d only just come to accept that he needed a new burner given the uneven heat it generated on that last batch of Mane Attraction, his hair growth tonic. Personally he didn’t care if it never made a knut as long as it stopped the migration of his hairline. If allowed to continue in another few years and it might be noticeable to others.

Draco opened the drawer of common ingredients. He was low on shrivelfig and dittany, and was that—Merlin’s panties! The leech juice had gone off again. Well that explained things. If the juice had been on the turn when he'd used it then no wonder half the last run-throughs had failed. His anti-nightmare potion was so close to ready he could scream but he’d need fresh leech juice to complete it.

He cast a _tempus_ charm and left the laboratory. If he wanted to look perfect for his dinner with Harry then he needed to start getting ready now.

* * *

 

When Harry arrived at the Leaky Cauldron Hannah Abbot waved from behind the bar. As usual, Harry found himself the focus of glances and conversation. He claimed a small table under a portrait of Griswald The Gargantuan eating a boar. Hannah brought him a menu.

“Good ta see ya, Harry. Dining alone this evening?”

“Hi Hannah. No, I’m meeting someone.”

Hannah winked. “The Leaky’s the spot for a romantic rendezvous. But if you’re planning to get kissy you’d best know that Fitzgerald MacMillan of _Witch Weekly_ is at his usual table.” She nodded toward a slender wizard with a fabulously tall red pompadour.

“I’m meeting Draco Malfoy,” Harry said.

“Well, we’re a good place for a bust-up drag-down fight as well.”

Harry held in a laugh. “He’s actually a friend now.”

“You must be barking mad.” Hannah shook her head, but took his order for a hot spiced pumpkin juice.

Harry waved to Draco as he entered. Harry had seen some well turned out witches and wizards, but Draco made them all look like street urchins. He’d attempted to dress down, Harry supposed, in trousers and a black summer sweater but had come out looking rather like James Bond. A very pale, very blond, Bond.

“Hello, Harry.”

The two young men sat awkwardly, pretending they weren’t checking each other out.

“Do you knit?” Draco asked suddenly.

“Do I—“ Harry’s brow furrowed. “Uh, no, actually. Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering about your sweater.”

Harry broke into a wide smile and glanced down at his green sweater. It did look rather homemade, but that was exactly what he liked about it.

“Oh, this? Ron’s Mum made it for me.”

“Then it goes well with your eyes,” Draco said. He looked at the menu. “What do you recommend?”

“I quite like the fisherman’s pie,” Harry said.

Draco read the entry. “Hmmm. Salmon, shrimp and cod under a potato crust. Sounds scrummy.”

Harry grinned, pleased to order for Draco as he had for Harry at Bridgewater’s. He made eye contact with Hannah who came over to the table.

“Two fisherman’s pies, Hannah. And another one of these.” Harry wiggled his butterbeer then turned to Draco. “Anything to drink?”

“Fizzing Gin Whizzbee, please.”

“Will do.” Hannah took the menus and nodded to the two men.

Harry realized that with Draco he had an opportunity to discuss topics he couldn’t bring up with Ron or Hermione.

“Draco,” he said, his throat going dry, “would you mind if we talked about the war a minute?”

Draco cocked a brow. “Should I mind?”

Harry shrugged. “Ron and Hermione are a bit sick of it.”

“I can’t talk about the war with anyone either. Pansy wants to pretend it never happened. Blaise pretends we won. Greg can’t think about it without crying over Vince.” Hannah arrived with their drinks and Draco thanked her. “So go ahead and talk.”

Harry finished his original butterbeer and moved onto the new one. “Okay. Do you get nightmares? Or flashbacks?”

“Nightmares, definitely.” Draco counted off on his fingers. “Voldemort killing my parents, Voldemort killing you, my psychotic aunt Bellatrix killing everyone. I’m working on a potion that stops nightmares but doesn't stop dreams. It'll be much better for you than Dreamless Sleep.” He paused to catch his breath. “What’s a flashback?”

“Harry chewed a lip, liking the idea that Draco dreamed about him even as he felt sorry that it was a nightmare. “It’s like you’re living it all over again.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Feels like you’re stuck in a repeating jinx. I didn't realize it had a name. You too, I take it?”

“Not as much as I used to.” Not since he’d started renovating.

“I have this one dream,” Harry said, “where I’m getting ready to go to the Burrow—Ron’s family’s place—and I look in the mirror, and I’m Voldemort. I’m him. And all I think is how angry Ron’s going to be with me.”

Draco let out a lovely clear laugh. “You turn into snake-face and all you’re worried about is how Weasley’s going to respond?”

Harry smiled, realizing Draco hadn’t called Ron ‘The Weasel.’

“Yeah.”

“That’s a pretty bad dream,” Draco agreed.

“I’ll say.” Harry gulped butterbeer, feeling like taking a risk. “S’pose that comes of having his soul in my head for sixteen years.”

Draco tensed and Harry’s gaze traced over the blond’s long fingers where they gripped his drink, at a bracelet of wooden beads around his wrist, then down his muscular forearm where Harry knew the Dark Mark lurked beneath his sweater. He wondered if Draco would let him see it up close. Harry’s ogling was interrupted by a bright flash and he looked up to see Fitzgerald MacMillan of _Witch Weekly_  looming over them, camera in hand.

“Mr. Potter,” he said. “I couldn’t help notice your lunch companion.” His eyes gleamed. “Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“Draco’s a friend,” Harry said. “And I’d appreciate it if we could finish our dinner in private.”

Draco looked shocked, frozen mid sip of Fizzing Gin.

The reporter whipped out a notebook and bouncing quill. “Does this mean Finch-Fletchley’s out of the picture?”

“He was never _in_ the picture,” Harry said crossly.

“How long has it been the two of you then?” The quill swished to indicate Harry and Draco.

Harry suddenly recalled the Manor’s memory of Draco crying outside the Manor. What was it he’d asked? ‘Why did it have to be you, Potter? Why has it always been you?’ Harry supposed he could the say same. “It’s always been him,” Harry muttered thoughtfully.

Draco stood. “Shall I walk you to the door, MacMillan?”

The reporter took a step back, hand lifted in deference to the former Death Eater. “Oh no. Thanks ever so, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco waited until the reporter had left then sat, looking serious. “You realize we’ll be on the cover of _Witch Weekly_ now?”

Harry nodded. “Yup.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“It’ll look nice on my wall. Right next to “Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache,” where Rita Skeeter claimed Hermione dumped me for Viktor Krum.”

“As if! Can Krum even talk?” Draco shook his head. “Well if it doesn’t bother you then I suppose I’ll have to live with it.” He smiled as if remembering something pleasant. “But back to our conversation.” His took a gulp of his drink and squinted at Harry. “You had _Voldemort_ in your head?”

“Yeah.” Harry ran a hand across the back of his neck. He’d promised Ron and Hermione not to mention horcruxes lest anyone think making their own was a smashing idea. But he could imagine being able to tell Draco someday.

“No wonder you were such an insufferable prat in school.”

“You’re one to talk!” Harry smacked Draco in the arm. “Besides, he’s not there anymore.” Harry could explain about dying some other time too. Maybe when they knew each other better.

“That’s a relief.” Draco said. “It would make kissing you a bit off-putting.”

Harry inhaled butterbeer. “Do you think that’s likely?” he finally chocked out.

Draco smirked. “Let’s see how dinner goes, shall we?”

Harry smiled. “Brilliant.”

Hannah arrived with the food and they tucked in. It was comforting and definitely scrummy.

“How’s potionmaking?” Harry asked, after a bit.

Draco frowned. “My lab’s going to blow my bollocks off.”

“There’s a horrifying image. What’s the problem?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “My cauldron’s on its last legs, my burner heats unevenly and my leech juice won’t stay fresh. I tell myself that Zygmunt Budge accomplished amazing things from a hut in the Hebrides but I’d _crucio_ myself for a decent lab.”

Harry filed that idea away.

“But like everything else involving the Manor,” Draco continued, “I’ll have to lump it. I’ve even had a few break-ins, but there’s no way the aurors would take a report from me.”

Harry’s back stiffened. This wasn’t a subject he wanted to discuss. He wasn’t sure that he could stop himself from confessing which would put a damper on their friendship.

“But enough about my problems,” Draco said. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Harry supposed he ought to get back to being supportive of Draco’s sexuality.

“Who was your first crush?” he asked.

“You first,” Draco said, looking nervous. “First _male_ crush.”

Harry blushed. “Oliver Wood. I was very impressed with him.”

Draco looked surprised. “Not Weasley?”

“Ron? Merlin, No!” Harry shuddered. “He’s like a brother.”

“I just wondered.”

“Your turn. First crush.”

“You’ll hate me." Draco paused as if afraid to speak. "You were my first crush.”

“Oh.”

Harry felt like he’d been hit by a stunning spell. Had Draco always liked him that way? Harry wondered how different their lives might’ve been if he’d realized.

“Yeah,” Draco said, sounding dejected. “Happy now?”

“Yeah actually.” Harry smiled and after a moment Draco did too.

They split a Chocolate Volcano, dipping their fudgy spoons into their coffees, and finally agreed to call it a night when the Leaky began to fill with drinkers. Draco paid as agreed and Harry led the way outside, pulling Draco into the dark entryway of a shop closed for the night. Draco smelled like old parchment.

“How are my chances for that kiss now?”

Draco gazed down his nose but the look was playful. “In a shop doorway? I’m not easy, Harry.”

Harry pulled on all his Gryffindor courage and ran his fingers tentatively through Draco’s short hair. It was shockingly soft. “I had noticed that, actually.”

“As long as you noticed.”

Draco shifted and then Harry did and then they were kissing.

* * *

 

Harry walked down Diagon Alley feeling invincible, his whole body tingling. They’d kissed until Draco had pulled away, whispering about the lateness of the hour and work in the morning and something about reporters. He’d asked Draco to commit to dinner again on Sunday. Draco, with hooded eyes and swollen lips, had said “Maybe.”

Harry was floating on that maybe.

“Harry!”

Harry looked up to find Ron sprinting toward him from Knockturn Alley.

“Hey Ron. What brings you here?”

Ron looked exhausted. “That burglary at Borgin and Burke’s. Someone’s stolen a Piercing Portkey, a Hand of Vengeance and a Lucrezia Cup.”

What’re those when they’re at home?”

“Dark artefacts.” Ron looked at him meaningfully. “Very dark.”

Harry slapped a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “You’ll find them. I have faith in you.”

“Thanks.” Ron sighed. “Well, best be off. ‘Mione’s not impressed at the hours I’ve been keeping.”

“She’d have loved if you had this work ethic at Hogwarts.”

Ron looked chuffed. “That was before she discovered my other talents.”

“Ew! Thanks for that image!”

Ron shrugged.

Harry bid him goodbye and headed for home. Only after he arrived did he wonder if he should have told Ron about the story likely to show in _Witch Weekly._ He went to bed, assuring himself that he had plenty of time. The new edition wasn't due out until Wednesday.


	9. The Big Fit-Up

Harry woke on Friday, after a Draco-themed dream all his own, about their kiss in Diagon Alley. Draco had tasted like chocolate and coffee and his lips had been soft but pushing hard. He remembered the bristle of Draco’s nape against his fingertips and it was as if Harry could close his eyes and relive every moment, awash in a need so strong it rivalled that for oxygen. These weren’t the shy tentative feelings he’d had toward Cho Chang or the warm companionship he’d had with Ginny Weasley. This was like a train bearing down upon him and it was more than a little terrifying.

This wasn’t going to be secret dinner dates and fumbling kisses in doorways from here on out. He’d do this properly. He would court Draco Malfoy with all the brazen daring he’d used to fight Voldemort. Yes, they’d have to do it under the eye of _The Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_  and even _The Quibbler_ , but that was how it worked when you were Harry Potter. He felt guilty. He couldn’t imagine the papers taking it easy on Draco or on the ex Death Eater angle. If he wasn’t careful Draco could end up as the Most Hated Man in Wizarding Britain. Harry couldn’t let that happen.

He’d have to tell Ron and Hermione about Draco before the new edition of _Witch Weekly_ came out. He laughed, picturing how enthusiastic Ron would be about the idea of him and Draco together.

Neville, he supposed, would know all the pureblood courting rituals—the proper gifts, the places to take Draco to let him know he was serious. Harry sat and quickly composed a note to Neville. As he dressed and headed to the Post Owl office Harry wondered if his father had done this sort of thing or if he’d researched muggle dating protocols instead. He laughed imagining his pureblood father frowning as he tried to figure out how to take Lily Evans to a movie theatre. Perhaps he’d asked Remus, whose mother had been a muggle.

By the time Harry had bought a few groceries and returned home Neville’s owl was waiting for him. Harry tore open the envelope and skimmed past the teasing and curiosity. According to Neville the first step in a pureblood courting was to present a gift to the intended that related to some special magical skill or talent they possessed. Neville’s great-great grandmother had received a hand-crafted puzzlebox as a courting gift and it still sat on a mantle in the Longbottom household.

Harry stuffed the letter into his writing desk and paced the library floor. Draco’s most obvious magical skill was potions, he supposed. He recalled Draco’s comments about his laboratory’s inadequacy and felt a protective urge toward the man’s bollocks. It was this feeling that propelled him to go shopping for lab equipment, first at Mulpepper’s Apothecary and then to Slug & Jiggers, finally ending the day with a visit to Hogwart’s. He returned home late that night with a rucksack into which the latest in high quality potions equipment and a very special piece of furniture had been shrunk.

This would be his last visit to the Manor, Harry decided as he dressed the next morning. He needed to come clean if the lab was to be a courting gift which would likely lead to a shouty discussion about Harry’s housebreaking activities. Harry supposed he should get Hermione to reveal the location of Grimmauld Place to Draco so they could have the argument in private.

Kreacher arrived, confirming that Draco had left the Manor early for a meeting with his solicitors. Harry frowned, thinking about Draco’s intentions to marry. The idea made his stomach feel like it were caught in a Wronski Feint but he couldn’t demand that Draco abandon his birthright. The Manor was important to Draco, and if he would give Harry a chance he’d help him to preserve it.

He grabbed Malfoy’s book and wedged it into his bulging rucksack then stuffed his invisibility cloak on top. He stepped into his fireplace and floo’d to Malfoy Manor. One benefit to his alliance with the Manor’s wards, it allowed him easy access.

The first thing he did was return the _Manutransitum Malfoy_ to its place on the bookshelf in Draco’s study. He hadn’t gotten around to reading it much and he felt a little guilty about keeping it so long.

The laboratory, in a chamber off Draco’s study, was scrupulously clean but the equipment was badly worn and out of date. Harry cast a _tempus_. Draco would likely go to lunch with Pansy from his solicitor’s. All the better for setting up Draco’s dream lab.

He began unpacking his rucksack and casting expansion spells on the contents. Mulpepper’s had provided a clear set-up diagram, but Slug & Jiggers assumed that their clients would know what to do with a retort flask, Graham condenser, and an alembic. Harry left them in their protective packaging on the worktable.

Finally he took the Apothecary Cabinet from his rucksack and ended the shrinking spell. It had belonged to Severus Snape. He’d liberated it from Hogwarts after a long meeting with Headmistress McGonagall in which she’d extracted his promise to do a workshop on defence for their NEWT-level students.

Seeing the cabinet’s warm mahogany come to life under his cleaning spells made Harry grin like a loon. The drawer pulls shone like new and the wood had a rich sheen. He manhandled it into a corner and _scourgio_ ’d inside each drawer before stocking it with what the clerk at Mulpepper’s had assured him were the more desirable ingredients. Finally he attached labels to the filled drawers.

Worry and Bandy arrived, looking nervous, and he put them to work following the instructions supplied by Slug & Jiggers. As Worry was assembling the distilling equipment he noticed that the house elf looked a bit swollen around the midsection.

“Pardon my asking,” Harry said, “but are you all right? Your front looks rather….”

“Worry is expecting a little visitor,” she said, looking pleased and touching her distended abdomen.

“You’re having a baby?” Harry set down the copper cauldron he’d been holding. If the house elves were reproducing that must mean that Draco was really getting married. Had that amazing kiss last night been some kind of last hurrah?

Harry hated the idea with every fibre of his being. At the same time he knew there was nothing he could do about it. If Draco had committed himself enough that his elves were reproducing again then Harry was too late. He turned back to his work. At least he could ensure Draco came out of it with a top of the line potions lab. He’d do it anonymously and save himself the heartache of explaining himself to an angry Draco.

* * *

 

The house elves headed to the kitchen, leaving Harry alone. He stretched his back muscles and assessed the room. Draco had produced a cracking good anxiety remedy with worn, outdated equipment and Harry was excited to see what he would accomplish now. Harry imagined Draco working alone late at night, trying to perfect some remedy or brew and he’d just wondered what the future Mr. Malfoy would be doing during such a time when the Manor reached out and pulled him into its memory.

This one was recent. He watched Draco set his wand by the bed, then strip off the clothes he'd worn for their dinner at The Leaky Cauldron. Harry didn’t look away this time, reasoning he might as well know what he’d be missing. He only caught a glimpse, but naked Draco was fair and solid, like a sculpture. He climbed into bed, took a notebook from his bedside and began to draw. Harry moved closer, expecting to see a racy charmed sketch, but Draco had drawn Harry’s face, lit by the streetlamps in Diagon Alley.

 _My God_ , Harry thought, _he’s made me look beautiful._

Harry was pulled from the memory as someone arrived in the study by floo, and Harry could almost sense the Manor’s frustration at being interrupted. Harry could tell from his connection to the wards that it wasn’t Draco. The lab didn’t have a fireplace, and his curiosity about who was arriving was too strong for him to apparate away. He pulled out his invisibility cloak and wrapped it around himself as the door opened and Auror Savage entered carrying a wooden box and looking angry. Harry held his breath as Savage crossed the stone floor toward Snape’s cabinet. Savage pulled on a heavy leather glove, opened the box and extracted a golden goblet which he set inside a bottom drawer. He stood, slammed the drawer shut with his boot and let out a long exhale.

Harry had no legitimate reason to be lurking under an invisibility cloak in Draco’s study; at least not one he was eager to share with Auror Savage, so he remained motionless and silent. Looking smug, Savage heading out the door. Seconds later Harry heard him announce, “The Ministry of Magic!” and the floo fired into action.

Harry slipped off the cloak. This whole situation was extremely fishy. He crept to the drawer to investigate but froze when he felt the wards tremble. It was Draco, this time. He could feel it in his bones. He cursed, wondering why he’d returned so early.

He slipped back under the invisibility cloak, his heart pounding in his chest, and cast a notice-me-not charm for good measure. He hoped Draco didn’t enter the lab.

As if in answer to his wish, Harry felt the wards shudder again as half a dozen aurors floo’d into the study.

* * *

 

Draco had arrived home in a strop. Niedermayer had finally gotten details about the ‘delicate condition’ of Astoria Greengrass. Cronus hadn’t lied when he’d promised his daughter could produce an heir but according to Niedermayer the blood curse she’d inherited would kill her within a year of giving birth. Plus, there was a risk of their children inheriting the curse as she had.

Draco owled Pansy to cancel lunch and went home to scheme the downfall of Cronos Greengrass, who had tried to sacrifice his daughter for a shot at the Malfoy coffers and leave Draco a widower with an infant to raise in the bargain. No sooner had he arrived than a handful of grim-looking aurors stomped into his study, disarming and immobilizing him. Draco could hear them congratulate one another on the smooth arrest as they transported him.

* * *

 

Harry fumed. He’d spent hours at the Ministry, trying to learn where the aurors had taken Draco, and what charges he was facing. His magic had begun to lash out after the first thirty minutes. He owled Draco’s solicitors to send a barrister and sent his patronus to reassure Draco’s house elves that he was working to have him released. Finally, Harry had bypassed several concerned secretaries to barge into Kingsley’s office, shouting until the man’s brass paperweight began to melt. Harry knew the damn thing was a gift from some muggle dignitary but he didn’t care. If he didn’t act fast Draco would be having breakfast in Azkaban. Harry managed to expedite the trial to that evening instead of the subsequent morning. It wasn’t much to show for his fame, but it would have to do.

The court in the 10th level of the Ministry was familiar; Harry had been in it as an underage wizard and again at the trials of various Death Eaters. It smelled musty. The Chief Warlock, a pudgy man with pince-nez glasses, loomed over them on an elevated podium. Many of the Wizengamot members were recognisable to Harry from Ministry events although he rarely saw them in their purple robes and tri-cornered hats.

Draco sat, restrained by spellwork and Harry’s head buzzed with fury at seeing him this way. Harry sat on the hard wooden bench. He could have cast a cushioning charm but he didn’t want to feel comfortable while this was happening to Draco.

The Chief Warlock Looked at a parchment and then at the door as a number of Aurors entered, Ron included.

“Ah,” said the Chief Warlock, “Since Auror Savage has deigned to grace us with his presence, we’ll begin.”

“My apologies, Your Honour!” Auror Savage hurried in, arms full of papers. "Collecting evidence.”

Ron sat next to Harry and leaned over with a grin. “Changing into dress uniform more like.” He leaned close. “Wait’ll you hear what we found at Malfoy’s,” he whispered.

Harry sat frozen and sweating. He should have told Ron about Draco already but it had never seemed like the right time. And now it was too late.

The Chief Warlock peered down from his podium. “What are the charges?”

“The accused, Draco Lucius Malfoy, is charged with three counts of burglary and one count of possessing an unregistered dark artefact.”

The Chief Warlock nodded. “And what occurred on the date of,” he looked down at the paper, “er, earlier today.”

Savage clasped his arms behind his back like a General inspecting his troops. “Acting on information received I searched the laboratory of Draco Malfoy and took a Lucrezia Cup into evidence. This cup was unregistered and hidden in the bottom drawer of his apothecary’s cabinet, My Lord. I have already submitted a memory of its discovery into evidence.”

“Thank you, Auror Savage. You are excused.”

Harry turned to Ron, his heart pounding. “Sorry, Ron. I really wish I could’ve told you first.”

“What?” Ron looked puzzled and Harry hoped his friend would forgive him.

“The if there is no further testimony, the Wizengamot will—“

Harry stood, and his voice sounded loud. “I have testimony relevant to this case.”

The Chief Wizard beckoned Harry forward until he stood before the looming podium.

“Harry Potter?” The Chief Warlock squinted down at him. “What can you tell us of this matter?”

Harry avoided making eye contact with Draco. Their maybe-more-than-friendship was over if he told the truth but Harry couldn’t let him go to Azkaban and he couldn’t let Savage get away with trying to send him there.

“I witnessed Auror Savage put that cup into the apothecary’s cabinet.”

The room filled with murmurs of barely suppressed concern. Ron looked like he’d just heard The Chudley Cannons were disbanding.

“Are you willing to submit to Veritaserum?” The Chief Warlock at least had the decency to look ashamed to ask.

“Absolutely,” Harry said.

A wizard approached the podium and there was some frantic whispering after which the Chief Warlock spoke. “You studied occlumancy under Severus Snape. Occlumens are often immune to Veritaserum.”

“I’m not.” Harry said. “I was always rather pants at occlumancy.”

A titter passed through the Wizengamot.

“Very well.”

A barrister approached and administered three drops of the truth potion to Harry’s tongue. He felt as if an egg were cracked over his head.

“How would you characterize your relationship with Draco Malfoy?” the Chief Warlock asked.

Harry had intended to say, “We’re friends,” but what came out was “I’m falling in love with him.” These words caused a sensation among the onlookers but Harry was preoccupied by the response of the defendant.

Draco’s head snapped up, eyes wide. Harry supposed his admission wouldn’t do much for Draco’s reputation. The least he could do was try to ensure he didn’t ruin Draco’s chances with the Greengrass family.

“My feelings aren’t reciprocated,” Harry added, thinking of the pregnant house elf. “I know that.”

The Chief Warlock’s face was pink. “I see. Can you describe the circumstances that brought you to Malfoy Manor?”

“Restoration,” Harry said, the word coming unbidden from his mouth. “I’ve been renovating the Manor. Fixing things.”

“For hire?” The Chief Warlock looked slightly angry, as if Draco had offended them all by expecting The Saviour to lower himself to menial work.

“No.” Harry concentrated on trying to phrase his confession. “Anonymously. I’ve been showing up twice a week or more since the 19th of May. Today was my last day so I wanted to do something special for him.” Harry was grateful that the Veritaserum didn’t compel him confess that he’d hoped the lab would be a courting gift.

“And?”

“I refurbished his laboratory. He’s a top notch Potions Master. I wanted to ensure that he had the proper equipment.”

Harry risked a glimpse at Draco then wished he hadn’t. He looked horrified.

“Are you familiar with the apothecary’s cabinet described by Auror Savage?”

“I am. Draco needed a decent storage unit and I thought he might like it for sentimental as well as practical reasons. It belonged to his godfather, Potions Master Severus Snape.”

The Chief Warlock regained his composure. “Severus Snape the Death Eater?”

“Yes.” Harry spoke through gritted teeth. Veritaserum did nothing to prevent him from getting angry. “He was a spy for the Order of The Phoenix. Posthumously awarded an Order of Merlin, Second Class.” Harry had seen to that himself.

“And do you still contend that Auror Savage put the Lucrezia Chalice into the cabinet?”

“I do.”

“There’s no doubt that Auror Savage _discovered_ the cup in the cabinet.” The Chief Warlock gestured with his tiny glasses. “So isn’t it possible that Mr. Malfoy secreted the Chalice there previously?”

“No, it’s not,” Harry said flatly. “I’d only just brought it there.”

“You…you brought the cabinet with you?”

“I did. Today.” Harry pre-empted the next line of attack. “I cleaned every drawer in it and it was definitely empty.”

“Malfoy put it in after Potter left!” Auror Savage shouted, his face a mottled in anger.

“I was with the cabinet from the time it arrive and I saw Savage plant the Chalice.”

“No he bloody didn’t!” Auror Savage snarled across the courtroom.

“I have a cloak of invisibility,” Harry explained. “It’s quite useful.”

The Chief Warlock glared at Savage. “Are you willing to submit a memory to the Wizengamot?” he asked Harry.

“I am, Your Honour.”

The Wizengamot began to chatter, clearly surprised by this turn of events.

A wizard approached with a vial and Harry transferred the memory. A pensieve was produced and the Chief Warlock soon removed his hat and plunged his head inside.

He emerged moments later, dried himself with a charm and took the podium.

“I order the accused, Draco Malfoy, to be released, and Auror Savage to be taken into custody.”

As the Wizengamot chattered Harry walked from the court, Ron close on his heels.


	10. The Big Fight

Ron grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him into the Ministry lift, which was occupied by the operator, a man carrying a wiggling sack, and some impatient paper airplanes. One of the planes kept poking Harry near his left ear and he swatted at it, annoyed. The doors opened as a crisp disembodied voice announced the floor for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Ron gripped him tightly and pulled him into the corridor.

Harry knew he was in for an interrogation that wouldn’t pull any punches on account of his fame. Ron cared about friendship and loyalty and Harry was failing both right now. Ron pushed him into an office and leaned against the door, arms crossed, waiting.

“Let’s have it then.” Ron looked like he’d just agreed to sit through a dental check-up administered by Hermione’s parents.

“Can we at least wait until the Vertiserum wears off?” Harry begged.

“Why? So you can lie to me?”

“Yeah, a bit.” When Ron didn’t reply Harry acquiesced. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Start with the part where you’re in love with bloody Malfoy! Or breaking into his Manor for a spot of reno. And while you’re at it, explain why you lied to me about it. We’re best mates. I felt a right berk when you incriminated Savage.”

Harry looked at Ron’s knees, afraid to make eye contact just now. “Sorry I got your boss arrested.”

Ron shrugged. “I reckon he brung it on himself based on what you saw. But it would’ve been nice to know beforehand.”

“Do I have to ask if your lot’s been planting evidence?”

Harry might breach the wards of banks and houses, steal Goblin-made swords and destroy private property, but he always did it for a good reason. Of course he could see how Savage might have said the same. Or how Ron might, even.

“No, you don’t,” Ron said. “Ex Death Eater or no, that’s not how we do it.”

“Well, good.”

“Yeah.” Ron said. “So. Malfoy?”

Harry wasn’t sure where to start. With the dreams? With how his secret hobby ended with him binding his core to Malfoy Manor? Overhearing Draco at the Leaky or sitting across from him at the Ministry banquet? Or back to when he first met the pointy blond snot getting kitted for robes in Madam Malkins? It was impossible to say when anything had begun.

“I like him,” Harry said at last. “More than I thought I would.”

“Bloody hell.” Ron looked up at the ceiling as if praying for strength. Finally he took a deep breath and spoke. “He’s not coming with us to any of the Cannons games this season. And he’d better apologize to ‘Mione. A good apology with lots of grovelling. And if I hear one slur—”

“There’s no point.” Harry dropped his head into his hands, feeling like a wrung-out dishrag. “He’ll never talk to me after today.”

“Oh yeah!” Ron rolled his eyes. “You kept him out of prison, called him a ‘top notch Potions Master’ and confessed your love into the official record. Who wouldn’t hate that?”

“You didn’t see his face.” Harry could feel hot wet tears soak into the palms of his hands where they pressed against his eyes. “He was horrified.”

“Well,” Ron wrapped an arm across Harry’s shoulders, “you’ve got to expect he’ll be a bit of a pillock. I mean, it is _Malfoy_.”

***

The moment the spells pinning him to the courtroom chair were lifted Draco dashed for the hallway to catch Harry, arriving in time to see the lift close with him and the Weasel inside. Draco groaned. The Ministry was enormous and the lifts bounced around like excited puffskeins. They could be anywhere, and considering the late hour they were likely headed home

Now officially a free wizard he returned to the Manor and sent an owl to Harry asking to see him in the morning. Draco was tired and hungry but he needed to visit his laboratory first.

When Draco stepped inside his breath caught in his throat. The equipment was top of the line, clean, and gleaming. Just the sight of it filled him with a giddy enthusiasm to experiment and made him forget his rumbling stomach. He ran his hands over Uncle Severus’ cabinet. He remembered it well; he’d sat at the foot of the thing as a child, but it had never looked so good. This was without doubt the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for him. Noticing the fresh labels he opened a drawer to find it full of dragon teeth and found another packed with hag-scab. The beautiful thing was fully stocked. Could the man be any more perfect?

He walked into the study to see if he could reach Harry by floo and his eyes immediately caught on the _Manutransitum Malfoy_ , now back on the shelf. He pulled it free and opened to its most recent entry. After a few moments he lowered himself into his chair, his attention riveted.

The first entry involving Harry was dated May 19, 2000 and detailed how he’d “transgressed the wards and hearths.” The book detailed Harry’s repairs in cumbersome Middle English.

And then came the section Draco dreaded: “The wardes entrap’d Potter and with byrning lykwyde fyre schotched hys fleshe. Potter woode haff dyed save for hys swifte effectynge of a bonde twixt magikal core and wardes.”

Draco was horrified. The trap he’d set for the bastard that had been planting dark artefacts inside the manor—Savage, apparently—had nearly killed Harry.

 _He_ had nearly killed Harry.

The entries ended with an odd note, “Formæle with Potter on the efengemæcca matter,” which he interpreted as ‘negotiated with Potter on the companion matter.’ Draco wasn’t sure what that meant but he knew that having Harry bound to the Manor’s wards was no small thing. It might even be a very dangerous thing.

He forgot about food and began to sort through the Manor’s library for anything illuminating about warding, eventually falling asleep in his chair surrounded by books.

* * *

Upon waking on Sunday morning Draco stretched and considered that he was too old to be kipping in chairs. As he contemplated a hot shower to soothe his stiff neck and back the previous day’s events came back to him.

 _I’m not some first year Hufflepuff_ , he thought, as he vigorously shampooed his hair. He was a Slytherin and a Malfoy. His every summer since third year had involved practice sessions with Veritaserum just in case the Ministry chose to interrogate the family. He knew first-hand that the potion didn’t make people tell the absolute or whole truth, only the truth as they believed it.

And Harry believed he was falling in love.

Draco rinsed and towelled off. Harry’s testimony would be all over the papers this morning. Soon everyone would be glaring at him not because he was a former Death Eater but because he was the former Death Eater who had seduced The Chosen One. He should flee. He could stay with Mother for a while but would France be far enough away?

His brain nudged his attention toward the _Manutransitum_. Right. It got worse. Not only had Draco’s trap burned Harry but it had resulted in bonding him to the Manor. Salazar only knew what that might do to Harry but Draco intended to find out.

“Worry! Bandy!”

The house elves appeared with a loud crack.

“I need to know what might happen to someone whose magical core has been—“

Draco’s throat closed up as he noticed the bulge of Worry’s front. His house elf was pregnant. Morgana’s monthlies! This was worse than he’d imagined.

He paced, wondering whom he could approach for advice. His mother was out of the question. She’d only see the opportunity this situation offered to recoup their social status. He couldn’t let her catch a hint of this business until he had it sorted. Uncle Severus would have been ideal but he’d died in the war, killed by that damn snake. Draco’s eyes lit up. Of course dead didn’t mean gone.

* * *

 

“Thank-you, Headmistress,” Draco said an hour later, vanishing the soot from his cloak. I appreciate you facilitating this consultation on such short notice.”

“You’re always welcome at Hogwarts, Mr. Malfoy.” Her eyes flickered up to the portrait of Headmaster Snape and back to Draco. “Far be it from me to deny you the benefit of your godfather’s advice when I enjoy it so frequently.”

Sarcasm sounded even more dry when said in a Scottish brogue. He nodded his thanks as she left him alone in the room. No doubt she’d tasked the other portraits to ensure he didn’t try to make off with the Sorting Hat.

Uncle Severus peered down from the wall, making Draco feel very small. “Draco? To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Draco put his hands behind his back, trying to look less nervous than he felt. “I’m having a problem with the Manor wards and I need your advice.”

Severus raised a brow. “Have you asked your father? He modified most of them.”

“I’d love to, but he died last year and didn’t have the foresight to sit for a portrait.” Draco felt the mixture of pity and disappointment that usually accompanied thoughts about his father.

Severus nodded, expressing a mix of ‘Sorry for your loss’ with pleasure at demonstrating more sagacity than the elder Malfoy. “And your mother?”

“Should only be told things in moderation.”

“I see. Well then, what’s your problem?”

 _Slytherin to the core_ , Draco thought, _reminding me that the problem is my own_.

“The Ministry allows its Aurors free rein in the Manor and one of them planted dark artefacts about the place.”

“I assume you’ve disposed of them?” He smirked. “The artefacts, not the Aurors.”

“Of course. But I was…overzealous.” Draco paced the office, explaining how his use of extreme measures had bound Harry to the Manor.

“Let me get this straight.” Severus’ voice was hard. “You attempted to solve your break-in problem using a deadly mantrap?”

“Well I didn’t know it was Harry, did I?”

Severus looked surprised by the familiarity.

“That’s his name. We’re friends.”

“I see.” His godfather crossed his arms. “Attempted murder does bring people together so.”

 _You’d know better than I_ , Draco thought.

“Has it occurred to you,” Severus asked, “that should the Manor be attacked the damage might be sustained by Mister Potter as well?”

Draco felt his blood drop, leaving him cold and nauseated.

“Ahhhh. I see it has not.” His voice became wistful. “And you showed such promise as a child.” The curve of his godfather’s mouth almost qualified as a smile. “The wards might even influence Potter’s mind, prone as it is to invasion.” He rambled on about how Harry’s failure at Occlumancy reflected a lack of effort and talent and segued into James Potter’s heaping share of the same but Draco ignored him, lost in thought. If the bond with the Manor could hurt Harry then the need to sever it was urgent. Perhaps he should remove all the wards entirely, starting over from scratch. It would leave him unprotected but better that than having Harry drop dead the next time there was a thundershower.

When he emerged from his wool-gathering Uncle Severus was speaking. “Potter’s law-breaking got him into this mess, let him get himself out.”

“As I said, he’s a friend.” Draco wondered how soon it would be before Uncle Severus’ portrait saw a copy of _Witch Weekly_ or heard students gossiping about it. He cleared his throat. “And he thinks he’s in love with me.”

His godfather sneered. “Heaven forbid a Potter should fail to obtain the object of his lust.”

Draco had to admit the artist really had captured his godfather’s dislike of James Potter. How keen Severus must have been to have it immortalized.

“I don’t give a muggles damn about your petty grievances!” Draco hissed, noting how the portrait flapped his robes at being spoken to in such a tone. “Harry is no more his father than I am mine. Can I separate him from the wards? Yes or no?”

“I can think of no way of doing so. It seems Mr. Potter will have to live with the result of his rash actions. For once.”

Draco wondered how much of a fuss Headmistress McGonagall would make if he gave the portrait a quick hexing. “Then I’ll bid you good day.”

“Don’t get too worked up about Potter,” Uncle Severus suggested. “A man of your means and breeding will have his choice of suitors. Even in such a… limited pool.”

Draco grabbed the back of a chair, barely daring to breathe. That comment had to be a reference to his sexuality, didn’t it? Or could Severus mean pureblood society?

“Your preferences,” his godfather looked as if kind words cost a galleon each, “have never altered my regard for you.”

 _How long had he known?_ Draco felt oddly accepted.

And then the greasy git had to ruin it.

“But do try to aim higher than mere _celebrity_.”

Draco bid the portrait farewell and expressed his appreciation to Headmistress McGonagall who insisted that he stay for tea and sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

Uncle Severus had been about as helpful as a pet skrewt, he thought, as he chewed watercress and cucumber. He’d have to resort to asking Granger. She‘d be motivated to help Harry, certainly, but would it be enough for her to collaborate with a former Death Eater?

He accepted a top up of very strong tea and answered McGonagall’s polite questions about his potions work.

Draco supposed he’d need to appeal to Granger’s brashness. It must be exceedingly overdeveloped if it had prevented her from being sorted into Ravenclaw.

He bid McGonagall goodbye and floo’d home, where he changed into his most casual muggle clothes, hoping they could do a lot of the speaking for him. He recalled a _Prophet_ article that mentioned where Granger and Weasley were living. With a final check of his appearance he picked up an old Calling Compass and apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole.

“Hermione Granger.” He spoke her name into the compass and followed the swaying needle to the door of a trim cottage. He slid a hand over his hair before rapping sharply with the knocker.

The door was opened by Granger, already in an energetic discussion with someone inside.

“At least he’s telling you what he—“ She turned and her face hardened. She’d clearly been expecting someone else.

“Malfoy?”

Draco mustered a smile, painful as it was. “Hello, Granger. Or is it Weasley now?”

“It’s Granger still.” She looked at his legs. “Good God, you’re wearing jeans.” She glanced around. “Is Harry with you?”

“No. He’s…” Draco actually had no idea where Harry was and the idea caused him no small amount of concern. “I’ve come alone.”

Granger collected herself. “Oh yes? What do you want, then?”

Draco took a cleansing breath. Married life, or whatever it was she and Weasley were doing, clearly hadn’t improved her manners any. Still he supposed he'd earned her cold shoulder.

“First, I want to apologize unreservedly for insulting you at school. My comments were foul, and entirely undeserved and in no way do they reflect my current outlook.”

“I should hope not.” She relaxed. “And the second thing?”

Draco glanced over his shoulder at a group of locals out for a stroll. “Might I come in? It’s about Harry.”

Granger stepped back and waved him in. “We’re expecting Ron’s family any moment,” she said by way of warning.

“Evening, Weasley.” Draco nodded warily to Ron, who was listening to a quidditch match on the wireless. A few moments told him it must be the Chudley Cannnons playing Ilkley. “What’s the score?” he asked simply to be pleasant.

“Cannons trailing by 230.” Ron frowned obstinately. “They could still pull out of it.”

Draco supposed they could if they somehow caught the snitch twice. He turned to Granger. He’d best be succinct before they were surrounded by poverty-stricken gingers.

“Harry has bonded his magical core to Malfoy Manor.”

Granger looked startled. “He wouldn’t.”

“He has. Now according to Former Headmaster Snape—“

“Snape,” Granger cut in looking suspicious, “is dead.”

“Well-spotted.” Too late, Draco remembered he shouldn’t insult her if he wanted her help. “I spoke with his portrait at Hogwarts. It’s remarkably lifelike.”

Weasley shuddered. “Imagine Snape watching you work every day. Poor McGonagall!” He turned his focus back to the match.

“So you want to extricate Harry from your wards?” Granger bit thoughtfully at her bottom lip.

“Immediately. It…it can’t be safe for him. The Manor’s acting oddly. I hate to think what it might do. What if it were attacked? Or hit by lightning? Severus thought it might hurt Harry.”

Granger looked like a kneazle, about to pounce. “The Manor’s acting odd? Odd how?”

“My house elves are reproducing, for one.” Seeing her surprise, he added, “I shan’t be marrying anytime soon so it’s not that.”

Granger’s eyes lit up. “Are you sure?”

“Entirely.” Draco thought of Cronus Greengrass and felt his fist itch to punch the man. It wasn’t often he resorted to muggle duelling but he’d gladly make an exception in this instance.

“Good!”

“How is that good?” Draco asked.

Granger pulled a tome from a bulging bookshelf and began flipping through it. “I’ve been reading about Manor houses. In my spare time, you know.”

“And not at all because your close friend was breaking into mine?”

“We didn’t know about that, actually.” Granger slapped her hand down on a page looking flushed and excited. Draco could see now how someone might find her pretty. “Here it is! Heirs used to bond their cores to their Manor wards to celebrate their fourteenth birthdays. It fell out of fashion when they legislated age seventeen as adulthood for wizards.”

“So Harry’s not in danger?” Draco barely dared to hope.

“Not _physically_.” She moved her hand. “You should really read the paragraph.”

'As young wizards of the counties were increasingly lured to the bright lights of London, pureblood families turned to ward bonding to foster attachment between first-born heirs and their ancestral home. Ward bonding enabled heirs to relive memories from the Manor House, usually during sleep, maintaining connections with their families and histories throughout the London season. Despite these benefits, at least three suicides were traced to ward bonding, as some heirs proved too unstable to shoulder the memories attached to their ancestral seat.'

Draco looked up, his face paler than usual. Harry’s connection to the Manor wards meant he’d be reliving Voldemort’s reign of terror. Draco wondered how many times his heart could break in a day.

“Thanks, Granger. I’d better go before your guests arrive.” She walked him to the door and he paused at the threshold. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you….”

“I’ll be sure to let you know,” she said, looking anxious to be rid of him.

“Box seats for the World Cup wouldn’t go amiss!” Ron called after him.

* * *

 

Draco returned home determined to make a breakthrough in his sleep potion. He might not be able to prevent the wards from sharing memories of Voldemort with Harry as he slept but if he could perfect the potion maybe he could prevent those memories from hurting Harry.

He’d had no response to his owl yet, which he found surprising. Who confesses they’re falling in love and then doesn’t respond to a simple owl? Of course who knew what passed for logic inside a Gryffindor’s brain?

Draco set his wand on the table, removed his cloak and began to unbutton his sleeves. He hadn’t tried grinding the Skullcap with the Motherwort yet. That might be worth a go. Perhaps with a bit of licorice. He turned to his shiny new mortar and pestle.

It occurred to Draco that one might mistake the laboratory as a traditional courting assay. Of course Harry was informed as a troll when it came to pureblood customs. Draco supposed that’s what came of letting a wizard be raised by muggles. He supposed he should investigate muggle courting customs. Did he know any muggleborns apart from Granger?

He was elbow deep in ground herbs when the floo in the study activated. He dusted off his hands and moved to the door of the lab hoping it might be Harry.

It was not Harry. It was Auror Savage, looking every bit the way his name implied and training his wand at Draco in a threatening manner.

“Look at you,” Savage sneered. “The Chosen One’s Chosen One.”

Draco winced. Is that what the papers were calling him? How horrid.

“Get out of here, Savage.” He stepped forward channelling the confidence he used to feel when he had Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. It was a confidence he didn’t actually feel now, especially with his wand just out of reach next to his mortar.

“That’s _Auror_ Savage to you, Malfoy.”

“Still? I thought they’d have fired you by now.” Draco switched his body language to neutral and moved sideways careful not to look at his wand.

“Administrative leave. A wrist-slap, really. But speaking of wrists,” He jabbed his wand toward Draco’s left arm. “Show it to me.”

Draco shifted closer to his wand, stopping when Savage’s shoulders tensed.

“Show you what?”

He knew what.

Part of him wanted to cooperate to prevent Savage from hurting him but Savage obviously planned to do that anyhow. He just needed certain things in place to justify it to himself and seeing Draco’s Dark Mark was one of them.

“That thing you let him put on your arm. I wanta see it.”

Draco moved for his wand. The moment the Hawthorn was in his grip he dodged to avoid Savage’s curse. It was close; he could feel the proximity of a _crucio_.

Were they at unforgivables already? He supposed that the side-effects of this mark on his arm. Nobody ever let him off easy.

Draco shot off a stunner while running. This wasn’t a pureblood wizard’s duel. This was a brawl against a combat hardened opponent. He dove behind the stone pedestal of his lab sink as another _crucio_ zipped by.

Draco eyed the door and the hearth in the study. The hearth was closer, but he’d need to grab powder, and that might get him killed. If he made it out the study door he could pause long enough to apparate. Draco cast a shield and ran for the door.

His feet slipped from under him and he crashed to the floor, scraping painfully across the stones. His wand flew from his hand just as Savage hit him with a _crucio_. He wasn’t getting away this time.


	11. The Big Rescue

Harry returned home late and downed a bottle of fairy wine that had been a present from Luna. He vaguely remembered doing a bit of drunken gardening in the dark and frightening Kreacher with muggle music and dancing. Finally, emotionally and physically exhausted, he’d collapsed onto bed, ignoring the parliament of owls outside. He was in no mood to deal with whatever they wanted.

Ten hours of unconsciousness later Harry had crawled out of his sweat-damp bed, squinting at the world for being far too bright. Luna’s wine, a delight last night, had blossomed into a pounding headache this morning—er, afternoon. He waked to the bathroom and groped through the cabinets looking for a hangover potion but finding none.

Had he really run out? Or had he put it somewhere odd?

He wondered about hangover potion and its possible whereabouts as he showered and dressed. He thought he remembered buying some. Grumbling, he dragged himself downstairs to eat cold cereal as he stared out the window at all the lovely owls.

If he didn’t clear them soon he’d get a visit from the Statute of Secrecy office.

Harry could almost hear Ron’s voice in his head saying,  _Best get it over with, yeah?_

Harry finished his cereal and pulled a sack from a low cupboard. Opening the window on the back garden he started to receive the accumulated mail. The owls, realizing this, rushed forward causing smaller owls to puff their feathers.

“One at a time,” Harry said to them. He started accepting letters and distributing treats, petting and compliments. Maybe he could get a job where he petted owls all day. Owl Salesman, he supposed. Or he could work with Post Owls. Wouldn’t that be a scandal? The Chosen One cleaning up the nation’s owl droppings.

He broke into a grin when he saw a message from Draco until he realized Draco had requested to meet him _this_ morning. The one he’d just slept through.

Harry recalled the appalled expression on Draco’s face in court. Maybe he had only inviting Harry over in to say “I’m not looking for a relationship right now” or however else you rebuff someone who’s just saved you from Azkaban. If he had to pretend not to be gutted while Draco tried to let him down easy he’d pass. He wasn’t being a coward, he assured himself. He was being realistic. Pregnant house elves and Draco’s dismay in court? Even Harry could do the math and he’d stopped taking that subject when he was ten.

The last of the owls had been sent off and Harry had just fixed himself a tea when a pretty heart-faced barn owl swooped in and dropped a special edition of _Witch Weekly_ on the counter before leaving again.

Harry sipped his tea and unfurled the paper. Sure enough, Draco and he were on the cover, eating dinner at The Leaky Cauldron. The headline read, ‘“It’s always been him”: Saviour declares love for Death Eater.’ Harry scanned the article which briefly described the court case and mentioned that Auror Savage was on administrative leave pending the outcome of charges against him.

 _I should bloody well hope he’s on leave_ , Harry thought crossly.

Despite hating articles about himself he continued reading. He needed to know what they were saying about Draco.

***“I’m falling in love with him,” our Hero admitted under the influence of Veritaserum. A source close to Potter suggests a love potion might be to blame. Potter himself testified that Malfoy was a ‘top notch potions expert.’***

Harry fumed. ‘A source close to Potter’ was newspaper code for anyone who’d ever attended Hogwarts. He read on.

***Potter is reported to have been friendly with the former Slytherin Prince at this year’s Annual Peace Banquet, and Potter himself testified to visiting Malfoy Manor shortly afterwards. His love offerings to the former Death Eater include a cutting edge potions laboratory and an apothecary’s cabinet that once belonged to former Death Eater Severus Snape.***

The article continued with quotes from an unnamed potions clerk describing how eager Harry had been to obtain only the best for his “close friend.” ‘How much evidence is required,’ the article asked in closing, ‘before the Ministry steps in to save The Saviour?’

Harry wanted to pull out his hair. As he sat people somewhere were likely starting a ‘Save the Saviour’ campaign with buttons and rosettes and a sodding theme song.

Sometimes he thought fame was the price he’d paid to defeat Voldemort. Death had never been this annoying.

Even with one of the most restrictive Floo addresses in the country Harry was in for a day of howlers and angry floo calls or visits from betrayed friends. And he’d likely see some Ministry official wanting to test him for Amortentia or _Imperious_. He considered hiding out in muggle London to avoid the fuss but that would only delay things. Better to grab the snorkack by the horns.

He’d need sandwiches. Harry used the last of the bread and was looking for some ginger biscuits when he spotted the distinctive pink bottle of Hangover Potion. He smiled. Maybe his day was turning around.

Then Ron floo’d in waving a copy of _Witch Weekly_ and shouting.

“ _It’s always been him_?” His incensed voice got louder as he stomped toward the kitchen. “What about _Ginny_?”

“Good afternoon to you too.” Harry winced at the noise. “Cuppa tea?”

“Yeah, okay.” Ron’s face went from outraged to merely offended and doubtful. “ _Well_?”

Harry sighed. He could bear his soul to Ron but he’d need to do it with a clear head.

He raised a finger, popped the cap from the potion bottle and gulped the sickeningly sweet liquid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stuck his tongue out as if it could escape from the taste. But sure enough, the headache evaporated.

“Sorry. Fairy wine.”

Ron nodded understandingly. Luna was a friend, but her gifts were a sure ticket to feeling troll-stomped. They still cringed when anyone mentioned the potent strain of Whomping Weed she’d grown on the grounds around Rook House.

“And as for the paper” Harry said, “it’s _Witch Weekly_ , Ron. They took it out of context. As usual.”

Ron comforted himself by eating one of Harry’s sandwiches. “Did you tell Fitzgerald MacMillan you only ever loved the Ferret?”

“No.” Harry frowned. “I was talking to myself really. How Draco and I’ve had something between us since we met as kids. I liked other people, I dated other people, but he’s always been a bit of an obsession with me.”

Ron snorted. “ _Now_ he admits it.”

“No reflection on Gin, honest. The break-up was over a year ago. We’re better as friends.”

Ron took another sandwich. “Well watch what you say in front of reporters, yeah? MacMillan makes you sound like of Mum’s Belladonna Courtland novels.” Ron assumed a falsetto and flung out an arm, “It’s you, Darling. It’s always been yoooou!”

Harry smacked Ron on the arm. The redhead dodged and snagged a third sandwich as compensation.

“You coming over? You missed the Cannons match but Arrows and Falcons play soon.”

Harry remembered that the Weasley family were having a get-together at Ron’s this afternoon. He didn’t much like the idea of being surrounded by Ginny’s family asking if he’d ever loved her

Harry shook his head. “I can’t face everyone just now.”

“Malfoy stopped our place earlier you know. Apologized to ‘Mione.”

“Really? That’s good. Isn’t it?”

Ron grinned. “Begged her help to disconnect you from his wards. They reckon the Manor could hurt your mental health.”

“I’ll be fine.” Harry hoped he’d be fine.

“I’ll let everyone know you’re givin’ it a miss tonight. Keep them from rushing over.” Ron promised. “But dinner soon, yeah?”

“Sure. Give my love to ‘Mione.”

Ron laughed. “All my love to the Ferret if he comes through on World Cup tickets. Drop hints on your next date.”

“There won’t be any,” Harry said. “He’s marrying one of the Greengrass girls.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Sure he is.”

Harry watched his friend’s retreating back. He’d put off facing the Weasleys but there was still Neville, Luna, and whomever the Ministry sent. And Ron had eaten half his sandwiches.

Harry opened his dry goods cupboard and stared inside. He’d make scones. Scones were perfect. Warm with jam and clotted cream they would mollify the annoyed and comfort the upset. He got to mixing and he’d just popped the pans into the oven when the vision came.

He stood, gazing sightlessly at the tile, not hearing the tick-tick-tick-tick of the oven timer shaped like a penguin. Instead he was in Draco’s study at Malfoy Manor watching Auror Savage stepping out of the floo. Harry frowned at the ash Savage tracked across the carpet. This must be a memory of one of the Ministry’s surprise inspections. He remembered Draco hinting that they’d been making free with the place. No wonder Savage had been able to frame Draco so easily.

The door to Draco’s lab opened and there he was looking mussed and busy and beautiful. And wandless.

Auror Savage took up an attack stance and pointed his wand at Draco.

“Look at you,” Savage sneered. “The Chosen One’s Chosen One.”

Harry’s stomach flip-flopped as he recognized the line from the paper. This wasn’t a memory. This was happening now.

“Get out of here, Savage,” Draco ordered.

It reminded Harry of the Slytherin’s Hogwarts days. But Savage wasn’t a first-year Hufflepuff, he was an Auror with twenty years experience under his belt. Draco realized this too and backed into the lab, going for his wand maybe.

“Show it to me.” Savage demanded, motioning to Draco’s left arm.

Harry felt his anger kindle into flame. Savage had no right. No right at all. He tried to grab Savage but his hands passed through him, tingling slightly.

“Show you what?” Draco was using his neutral voice, but Harry could hear the fear in it.

“That thing you let him put on your arm,” Savage glared at Draco. “I wanta see it.”

Draco lurched for his wand and Savage got off a _crucio_ , barely missing him. They exchanged fire, but Savage had years of training and practice. Draco slipped on a _glaciesmenti_ , and went down.

Draco needed him. Now.

The Manors’ wards released, and Harry was in his kitchen again, being stared at by Neville and Luna as the penguin timer buzzed loudly on the counter.

“Okay, Harry?” Neville asked, looking worried. “You were unresponsive. I thought you’d been _imperiused_.”

“I thought you’d been colonized by wrackspurts,” Luna offered. “Or hypnotized by kitchen appliances.”

“Sorry. Have to go. Floo Ron to meet me at Malfoy Manor. Draco’s in trouble!” He grabbed his wand. “Scones in the oven. Help yourself.”

Harry rushed to the floo, hoping the Slytherin was as good at self-preservation as he’d always claimed.

* * *

 

Ron Weasley was having a relaxing evening. His Dad had shared a racy story about a Ministry official before making him swear not to tell Percy. George and Ginny were shouting statistics at each other over whether the Arrows or the Falcons were having the better year. His Mum had brought that spicy apple cake he liked. All was right with the world.

Well, maybe not _all_. His best mate had a thing for a certain pointy-faced git, but at least their insanity was mutual. Malfoy’d been really worried about Harry.

And then his hearth was full of Neville and Luna shouting. By the time Ron understood the problem Hermione had brought him his uniform coat and wand. He headed to the Ministry and from there to the Manor, stepping in to see Malfoy curled in a ball on the floor writhing in agony and Suspended Auror Savage bound by an _incarcerus_ , shouting about Death Eaters.

Ron let out a low whistle. “Bloody Hell!”

* * *

 

Pain. Always so much pain. It made Draco’s bones ache to be free of their muscles. He sucked in air around his screams, like razorblades. As his body curled in on itself he crushed one of the beads on his bracelet between his molars.

Once unforgivable curses had become part of his daily life under Voldemort’s tenancy at the Manor, Draco had taken steps. He had no intention of allowing the Death Eaters to drive him mad with torture as his homicidal Aunt had done to Longbottom’s parents. Inside the beads were a pain potion and time-condensing spell designed to prolong the palliative effects. It didn’t eliminate the agony but it made it survivable with one’s brain intact. And Draco had accumulated lots of practice curling into a small, whimpering ball. Savage would never know.

Draco grimaced as the curse hit a second time. He’d need to feel this one. He only had so many beads and Savage could attack indefinitely. Did anyone even know he was here? Draco had begun to consider how he might feign death when he heard someone shouting.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

Harry’s voice.

For a moment Draco thought he was fantasizing about being rescued. Then the pain stopped. He bit two of the beads and allowed himself the luxury of lying exhausted, face-down on the carpet, ignoring everything.

He heard Savage shouting and what sounded like Weasley saying, “Bloody Hell!”

Then someone was lifting him and Harry’s concerned green eyes came into focus above him.

“I’m taking you to St. Mungos.”

“They won’t treat me,” Draco warned him. He’d been to the hospital twice before, once after a potions accident caused by expired lungwort and the second time after being hexed on a side-street by some cowardly do-gooder getting his post-war jollies. The first time they’d kept him waiting three hours until he got the hint and left of his own accord and the second time the Mediwitch had glared with distain and stated they were “full up for the indefinite future.”

Harry cradled Draco’s head, shouting to a Mediwitch that he needed a Healer.

Draco tried not to laugh. Harry was warm and solid. Draco felt cold and wet. He was going into shock. Potter would know it too, which was why he hadn’t tried to _rennervate_ him. Simple healing spells wouldn’t work on an unforgivable curse.

“I could check _you_ in, Sir,” The Mediwitch offered.

“I’m not injured!”

 _Harry must be furious_ , Draco thought. He could hear lanterns exploding all down the hall as Harry’s magic lashed out.

Draco tried to stand under his own power, to insist he was fine, but he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He closed them again, feeling nauseated and dizzy as Harry argued with the Mediwitch. A crowd was gathering; he could hear their murmurs.

When Draco forced his eyelids up again a tall man in an authoritative green robe was barrelling down the hall toward them.

“What’s all the shouting?” he demanded.

“He wants to admit _Draco Malfoy_.” The Mediwitch spoke as if this was very peculiar behaviour and rather disappointing coming from a celebrity.

“The Death Eater?” The man recoiled. “I’ll not treat him."

“ _Petrificus totalus_!” Harry’s arm moved so fast Draco could barely see it. Although to be fair his eyesight wasn’t spot on just then. “Anyone else not willing to treat my friend?” Harry shouted.

Two Mediwitches and a Healer rushed forward, eager to assist.

Draco smiled, his heart full with a sunny feeling. Maybe he wouldn’t die today after all.


	12. Draco's Big Muggle Night In

Harry paced the shiny floor in St. Mungo’s waiting room, fists clenching at his sides. He hated being useless. His magic roiled, wanting to lash out, but he struggled to contain it. The last thing he needed was another outburst in front of Ron.

 _Draco will be fine_ , he assured himself _. They’re the best Healers in the country._

 _But what if they don’t try their best?_ His traitorous brain refused to be reassured. _Maybe I should be in there, keeping watch._

_The healers don’t need me crowding them. That won’t help._

Nearby, a magazine began to flutter. Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, trying to calm himself. Ron slapped a hand on the magazine, stopping its flapping. His eyelids were heavy and purple.

 _I should take Ron home_ , Harry thought _. He looks knackered._

_What if Draco needs me and I’m not here?_

_He doesn’t need you. You saw that pregnant elf. He’d marrying Astoria._

_She probably doesn’t even know he’s hurt._

“Nobody’s told Astoria.” The words burst from Harry. “Should I let her know?”

“Oh yeah," Ron said sardonically. "‘Hey, Greengrass, Draco’s been attacked by a mad Auror. Fancy coming to St. Mungo’s and watching me eat my heart out over ‘im?’ Brilliant.”

Harry cringed. “Okay, but someone should let her know.”

Ron shrugged. “They get _The Prophet_ in Coventry.”

Harry shook his head. Sometimes he forgot what a bastard Ron could be. But given his current predicament he supposed he was rather fond of bastards.

“Astoria should be here when he wakes up.” 

“I’ll owl her,” Ron offered. “But we should both go home. Malfoy won’t even be allowed visitors ‘til tomorrow.”

“You’re right. I’m useless here.”

Ron squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “‘Mione and I’ll check on him in the morning for you.” They walked past reception, now lit with floating candles. Ron hunched his shoulders, as if to hide from the glaring Mediwitch. “Prolly shouldn’t show your face round here for a bit. They’re not exactly chuffed you busted up reception.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

“How long’s your magic been going wild?”

“Couple of weeks.” _Months_. “I was going to tell you.” _As soon as I couldn’t avoid it anymore._ “Only happens when I’m angry.” _Which is often._

“‘Mione’ll figure it out,” Ron assured him. “She always does.”

Harry bid Ron goodbye and left St. Mungo’s on foot, stepping out through the window of Purge and Dowse, Ltd, and into Muggle London. He strode along the cobbled street until he reached the phone box entry to the Ministry. Soon he was sitting across from Kingsley Shacklebolt whose robes glittered like the night sky.

“Harry!” Kingsley’s voice was warm and friendly and leaned across his big desk to shake hands. “Good to see you. What brings you by?”

“Auror Savage’s attack on Draco Malfoy.”

Harry released Kingsley’s hand and sat in the guest chair. The paperweight he’d melted was still there, holding down a stack of twitching violet memos.

Kingsley looked away and his earring caught the light. “I was sorry to hear about that. I’m initiating an inquiry.”

“I assumed you would. Especially since the Ministry put Savage on administrative leave but didn’t cut off his access to the wards. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. One you’d lose.”

“Savage is being held until trial. What more can I do, Harry?”

“Reverse the regulations. No aurors bypassing private wards without prior Wizengamot approval.”

Kingsley looked tired. “Changing regulations is a cumbersome process, Harry. There’s a lot to consider. I have to think of public safety.”

“I’ll tell that to _The Prophet_ when I explain how everyone on the Floo Network is in danger from rogue aurors.”

“ _You’d_ go to the press?” Kingsley looked doubtful. “The Boy Who Hates Publicity?”

Harry crossed his arms. “Have you read the papers lately? A potions genius apparently has me in his thrall. Who knows what I might do?”

“And if I believed everything I read I’d have an Unspeakable up here testing you for love potions.”

"Why aren't you?"

Kingsley waved a hand. “I spoke with Dumbledore’s portrait.”

“Dumbledore knows?”

“Yes. Apparently your fascination with the Malfoy boy was not news to him.”

Harry wondered if he was the last to know about his longstanding crush on Draco Malfoy.

Kingsley touched his wand to a whorl in the desktop and Kilgore MacDuff entered looking smug and obsequious.

Kingsley squinted up at him. “Where’s Sinah?”

“Still dealing with the post, Minister. I’m MacDuff.” He nodded at Harry. “Hello, Mr. Potter.”

“MacDuff.” Harry smiled, reminded of how Draco had defended him at the Ministry dinner. “Getting a lot of owls, are you?”

MacDuff looked put-upon. “We’re awash in howlers over this Savage business.”

“Pity if those increased,” Harry said. “Difficult to get much done, I’d wager.”

“Okay Harry. You win.” Kingsley scribbled on a parchment, marked it with his wand and added the Ministry seal before handing it to MacDuff. “Take this to Murphy. Tell him I want the legislation changed today.”

“Yes Sir! Right away, Sir.” MacDuff nodded to Harry and spun on his heel, gripping the parchment as if he were delivering the cure for spattergroit.

“Now,” Kingsley leaned forward. “About your speech for the opening of the War Museum next month—”

Harry stood. “Sorry, Kingsley. I’m taking a step back from public events.”

“Be reasonable. People need a reminder of the future, of young wizards like yourself, perhaps even Mr. Malfoy. If you’d like to attend together I can arrange it.”

The guilt trip, usually so successful, bothered Harry not at all. He’d rather spend another summer with the Dursleys than let the Ministry exploit whatever it was he and Draco had. Used to have. Almost had. Whatever.

“Sorry. I’ve had my fill of speeches.” He paused at the door. “Why don’t you see if Celestina Warbeck’s free that night? People adore her.”

* * *

 

Draco lay in bed, hungry and bored. St. Mungo’s, which had initially refused to treat him, was now refusing to release him until he’d been prodded and inspected by half a dozen curse specialists. He lazed in bed enjoying the irony but not the scratchy sheets.

Tedium drove him to peruse the papers at his bedside. _Witch Weekly_ featured a photo of Harry and him at the Leaky Cauldron. Draco frowned at the headline, ‘“It’s always been him”: Saviour declares love for Death Eater.’ MacMillan's article portrayed him as an evil potions genius which was both insulting and flattering. Draco re-read the bits where Harry talked about him, feeling warm and tingly inside.

Turning to _The Prophet_ , a photo from his trial peered at him, gaunt and remorseful. He'd have Pansy owl them one of him in his new suit. That would send the right message—namely that he wasn’t sport-killing muggles on the weekends. The article focused on how Savage’s plan to torture him to death had been thwarted by two thirds of the Golden Trio. Draco supposed he was lucky Granger hadn’t tagged along reciting the history of pain curses while they argued with the Mediwitch.

Draco set _The Prophet_ aside. They could've credited him for enduring a dozen _crucios_ without losing his gobstones. Of course if they had every twit with a wand would want to test Draco's pain tolerance, so perhaps it was for the best.

He scanned the rest of the news. There was no mention of the kerfuffle getting admitted to St. Mungo’s, only that he was recovering and Savage was being held without bond. Lovely. He wondered how many other Aurors might pop into the Manor for a spot of revenge. Perhaps he should stay elsewhere for the time being.

He hesitated to pick up _The Quibbler_ , but boredom won out. The headline read, “Seekers Find Each Other.” The story detailed how former quidditch rivals had caught the greatest snitch of all—love. Draco snorted. Love felt more akin to a bludger to the head if the present experience were anything to go by. The article went on to list things he and Harry had in common. Draco was amused to learn they’d both been beleaguered by flibbertigibbets. He knew he certainly had.

The curtain separating his bed from the others pulled back with a snick to reveal Granger and Weasley.

“Hello, Malfoy. How are you feeling?” Granger asked. She set a box of muggle chocolates on his bedside table.

Draco folded _The Quibbler_ and set it aside. “Like I’ve been _crucio_ ’d half a dozen times, thanks for asking.”

“You gonna finish this?” Weasley asked, peering avidly at the sludgy soup St. Mungo’s had delivered an hour ago. One might suspect Granger of starving him but Draco had seen Weasley eat at Hogwarts and the man was a bottomless pit.

“Not if they paid me a galleon a bite.” It looked repulsive and Draco didn’t trust the staff not to have spit in it.

He waved a hand. “Have at it.” A bit of spit wouldn’t hurt Weasley.

“Aces.” He grabbed a spoon and tucked in.

Granger spoke. “There’s a bit of a situation with Harry and your wards.”

“You said his connection to the Manor wasn’t dangerous.” Draco felt that bludger again, bumping against his sternum.

She frowned. “The Manor is sharing memories with him at night in his dreams. Of you, mostly.” Her face flushed. “Based on what he said and what he tried to leave out I think the Manor’s trying to match-make.”

Draco let out a derisive laugh. If the Manor were trying to shine him up to Potter it would need better memories than the ones it had. At least now he understood why Harry could cross the wards as of he owned the place. The Manor wanted him there. Draco wouldn’t mind having him around more often himself.

Ron snorted. “Bit of a ‘coals to Newcastle,’ innit? Harry’s always been mental when it comes to you.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” All life-saving aside—which any dunderheaded Gryffindor might do—the dinners, snogging, and weeks of home renovation painted a picture Draco could interpret on his own.

“You should go see him once you’re released,” Granger opined. “He thinks you’re furious.”

“I am.” Draco smoothed out the blanket across his lap. “At Savage. _He’s_ the one who planted dark artefacts in my home and tried to send me to Azkaban.”

“And tried to kill you,” Weasley added.

Draco steeled his nerve. “I owe you my thanks, Weasley. The papers say you took Savage into custody.”

“No problem.” He grinned. “Not every Auror gets to _incarcerus_ his boss.”

“You’re not just any Auror, Ron.” Hermione looked at the Weasel with fondness then turned back again. “Talk to Harry.”

“If they ever release me, I shall.”

“You’ll need to read this first.” She passed him a parchment on which was neatly written, ‘Harry Potter lives at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.’

Draco goggled at the address. “The Black estate?”

Granger’s face pinched. “It’s his legally. Sirius left it to him.”

Draco shuddered. As of he wanted to inherit that gruesome place. He’d only been five when his great aunt Walburga died but he recalled the house elf heads mounted on her walls. That side of the family had a distinctly morbid streak.

Draco turned to the ginger. “May we have the room Weasley? I’d like a word with Granger.”

The couple exchanged looks as Draco tactfully expressed interest in his fingernails.

Weasley drained the bowl and set it on the tray. “I’ll be right outside.”

Draco bit his tongue. Did The Weasel think he posed a threat to Granger? He’d just gotten over being tortured by a madman (not for the first time, but still—trauma), and he needed her help. Of course, Gryffindors will be Gryffindors.

He waited until the door closed and then cast a _muffliato_. If he was going to debase himself he didn’t want an audience.

“You were raised by muggles,” he began.

“I was.” She tilted her chin up, ready to argue.

“How do muggles court?”

“Court?”

Draco flinched at her sharp tone. He should have asked Marcus Flint but it was too late now.

“Yes, court.” He gritted his teeth. “Date. Form families. They don’t just split in half like flobberworms, I take it?”

Granger smirked. “Someone earned an ‘O’ in Care of Magical Creatures.” When Draco didn’t rise to the bait, she continued. “Meeting for coffee is a common first date, although dinner and a movie is standard as well.”

“I see.” He wasn’t sure what a ‘movie’ was, but he’d reached his daily threshold for humiliating questions.

“Thanks for coming by,” he said, Malfoy mask back in place. “And for the chocolates.” He glanced at the box. They looked expensive, so perhaps they’d be edible.

“Not a problem,” Granger said. “We were in the area.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I lodged a complaint with the Ministry’s Magical Patent Office. Some witch wants to market radishes that make gnomes sick.”

“You’re opposing Lady Pitt-Peel’s gnome-repelling radishes?”

Granger’s face tightened as if her hair had been bunched by a troll. “Radishes are a garden gnome’s second-most-popular food source!”

Seven minutes later when Weasley interrupted Granger’s rant on the rights and dietary habits of gnomes, Draco was actually happy to see the git.

***

While Ron and Hermione went to St. Mungo’s, Harry headed to Malfoy Manor where he was met by Bandy and Worry. He presented the pregnant elf with a soft knitted blanket he’d bought in Diagon Alley and offered his congratulations. Unaccustomed to receiving gifts, the elves stuttered thanks and fled. Harry hoped they weren’t going to iron their ears or something.

The major repairs to the Manor were complete but Savage’s attack had left the study and laboratory a mess and there was no way Harry wanted Draco returning to this. He started with the lab, casting _reparo_ on the broken glassware, cleaning curse burns from the walls and finishing with a disinfection charm he’d looked up in an old textbook. Once the lab was sterile he turned to the study, working until the room was neat and cosy. He finished with a spell George Weasley had designed.

That done, Harry strolled about the Manor. The trophy room glowed with polish and the cups shone in their spotlights. Pride surged when he caught his reflection in the front room flooring that had once been crusted with badger and peacock droppings. Back in Draco’s study he sat on a settee, running his hands over the lush fabric and bouncing lightly, testing the springs. They’d held.

Once, he’d have liked to see this place razed to the ground. Now he’d miss it. He swallowed, tasting tears, and floo’d home.

* * *

 

Draco was visited by a series of Healers, the last of whom checked his vitals, signed his release and advised him not to get cursed with unforgivables in future. Draco thanked him curtly and left, muggle chocolates under his arm. He needed a hot shower and decent food. Thanks to Harry he could get the first of those at home.

He arrived in his study to a floating banner that shouted, “Welcome home!” in the amplified voice of a dozen Weasleys and then exploded into fireworks, spelling out mild insults. Harry had been here, evidenced by this foolishness and by the fact that all trace of Savage’s attack had been obliterated.

Smiling, Draco walked to his bedroom, stripped, and spent a disgracefully long time in the shower. He sighed as the water pounded his back. Harry was a bloody genius with plumbing.

Later, dressed in muggle casuals, Draco floo’d into Number 12 Grimmauld Place and set his dragonhide satchel and bags of curry takeout on the coffee table. He’d expected to be blocked or immobilized but the wards allowed him through without pause.

Draco peered around. The sitting room was bright, clean and welcoming. It certainly wasn’t what he remembered from the days of Walburga Black. Harry’d probably even gotten rid of the elf heads. One wall was covered in a display of anti-Potter memorabilia, including, he was shocked to see, one of his own ‘Potter Stinks’ badges.

Muggle music drifted in from the library and Draco approached, clutching his wand.

“Who let the dogs out?!” Harry lay on the rug waving a bottle of something. “Who! Who, who, who! Who let the dogs out?!”

Draco suspected this was an attempt at song but stayed. Potter’s dogs, if he had any, were sure to be unruly mongrels.

“Hello? Harry?” He wasn’t daft enough to startle the wizard who’d killed Voldemort.

“Draco? In here!” Harry waved his hand and the music stopped. He grinned up at Draco, eyes wet behind his glasses. “I’m glad you’re okay. I really wanted you to be okay. Are you? Okay?”

“I’m fine, but you’re drunk as a lord,” Draco observed.

“Yes. I. Am. And you,” he gestured with the bottle, “you are very pretty. Your hair’s all shiny and spiky and…and pretty.”

“Yes, yes. I’m very pretty.” Draco crossed his arms and tried not to smile. “Is that it then? Nothing about my mind, skills, or obvious virility?”

“You’re loads funnier than you get credit for.” Harry sat up, tilting heavily to one side. Draco reached a hand to steady him.

“I get why Astoria likes you. I get it.” He frowned. “I won’t interfere. I’ll get you both a nice wedding present. What does she like? Apart from you, obviously.”

Draco sat next to Harry and took the bottle, setting it out of reach. He’d pour a sobering potion down The Wasted One’s throat, but not yet.

“Negotiations with the Greengrasses are scratched. Although Astoria did owl me a lovely Get Well card wishing us all the best.”

Harry looked _confunded_. “But your house elf’s expecting. So you’re getting married.”

“Not exactly Ravenclaw material are you, Potter? The elves are reproducing because of _you_.” Draco threaded his fingers through Harry’s unruly dark locks. “The Manor’s not using my ancestral values to determine if the family line is secure. It’s using yours.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “ _I_ got Worry pregnant?”

Draco pulled a face. “I blame Bandy, there. But you think adopting someone makes them family and I _can_ adopt so my house elves are reproducing again.” He ran his thumb across Harry’s famous scar.

“Problem solved?” Harry asked.

“Not quite,” Draco said. “Inbreeding elves is not a good idea. Besides, even if I shut up the unused portions of the Manor I need a bigger staff. Half a dozen at a minimum. More, if I plan to entertain.”

Harry features clouded. “Sorry for breaking into your house. I had no right. I know that.”

“Don’t make me _tonguetie_ you, Potter. What you did makes an enormous difference. I’m can be happy there now with fewer reminders of the war. And you're really very good at domestic labour. I should hire you full time.” He took Harry by the hand. “Why do it, though? Have a burning urge to repair stately homes? Should I warn the Travers or the Selwyns to strengthen their wards? Longbottom’s got a nice estate you could work on, I’m sure.”

Harry shrugged. “I saw how they treated you in Diagon Alley. It wasn’t fair.”

Draco’s ears burned. He could have done without Harry seeing him humiliated by shopkeepers.

“Why didn’t you simply buy me some elves? I’m sure someone would’ve sold them to _you_.”

Harry looked stunned. “It never occurred to me.”

Draco sighed. “Of course it didn’t. It occurred to you to break in repeatedly and do the work yourself.” Muggle schools hadn’t taught Harry a lick of common sense.

“Well, yeah. I’m kind of hands-on in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Draco didn’t stop the grin that broke across his face. “I noticed.” He released Harry's hand and stood. “I’m famished, and St. Mungo’s food is horrid. Care to help demolish my curry takeaway?”

Harry rose, wobbling. “Yeah. Brilliant.”

They followed the spicy scent of food. Draco pulled a set of vials from his satchel and selected one. “Drink this first. It’ll clear your head without that anxious feeling you get with Wideye.”

Harry took the vial. “Did you make this?”

“Of course,” Draco said. “It’s too salty still but I’ve tested it on dozens of pureblood Slytherins, so someone with your sturdy constitution should be fine.”

“I can tell you’re joking, you know. Bottoms up.” He threw back the potion and in a moment was sober and sheepish. He gathered dishes from the kitchen and set them on the coffee table.

“Is this dinner?” Draco asked once they were eating.

Harry dipped a torn piece of naan bread into his saag chana. “Lunch too. I started drinking after breakfast.”

“Morning drinker? What a catch you are, Potter.”

“It’s not a habit. I was trying to keep from bursting into your sickroom and horrifying your fiancée.”

“You’d have been perfectly welcome in my sickroom. Might've prevented Granger’s lecture on saving the gnomes.” He pushed his aloo gobi around with a fork. “But I meant does takeaway count as dinner? In a muggle sense?”

Harry nodded. “Absolutely. Muggles eat curry for dinner lots. Why?”

“I’ve been led to understand that ‘dinner and a movie’ is a muggle courting ritual.”

The berk grinned. “You know what a movie is?”

“Of course I know what a movie is.” In fact, Draco had stood in the Muggle Studies section of Flourish & Blot’s not an hour earlier, researching the term. As he understood it, a movie was a long-running photograph of muggle celebrities acting out stories. “Intellectually, that is. I haven’t watched one yet.”

“I have a movie we could watch.” Harry gave him a look that was 60% Slytherin and 30% lust. “It’s called Velvet Goldmine.”

* * *

 

Draco licked his lip, tasting salt and butter, and let his body sink deeper into Harry’s sofa. He liked movies. They were an excuse to sit close—he’d practically burrowed under Harry’s arm—and one traditionally ate snacks. Harry made popcorn and they’d shared the chocolates Granger had given him.

“I had no idea muggles could be like that,” Draco admitted.

“Bisexual?” Harry turned off the movie box and put the shiny disc into its protective case.

“So…fit.”

Harry laughed as he returned and slid an arm around Draco’s shoulders. “Got a muggle fetish, Draco? Best I know now.”

“Let’s say I’m developing an appreciation.”

“Not turned you off wizards, I hope?” Harry let his arm slide to Draco’s waist and tugged him closer.

Draco leaned against him, enjoying the warmth. “What do you think?”

“I’d _like_ to think you’d give the right wizard a chance, even if he isn’t Ewan McGregor.”

Draco turned, his mouth close to Harry’s. “Was he the blond one?”

“Mostly blond.” Harry’s gaze flitted from Draco’s eyes to his lips and back.

“I think you have a thing for blonds.”

“One in particular.”

“Draco wet his lips. Prove it.”

Harry’s response was soft, tasted of chocolate and had Draco arching against him in moments.

* * *

 

Draco exited the bathroom the next morning, his hair damp and spiky, a towel around his waist, then stood in the doorway watching Harry sleep. He wasn’t sure how to behave after a night of romantic debauchery with his former nemesis turned—what? Lover? Boyfriend? Friend-with-benefits? He sat on the messy bed and put a hand on Harry’s leg in a way he hoped wasn’t too-familiar. But then what was too familiar after what they’d done last night?

Harry woke, stretched and yawned, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Hey.” He smiled, and Draco’s shoulders relaxed.

“Hey yourself,” Draco said. “Your shower’s brilliant.”

“Thanks.” Harry sat against a pillow. “Have you got plans for today?”

Draco crawled into kissing distance. “Why do you ask?”

“We could look through the attic if you like. I put all the Black family stuff up there. Might be something you want.”

Draco pressed his lips to Harry’s shoulder and neck. “I’d be honoured to root through the Black family debris with you,” he murmured, ghosting his lips along Harry’s pulse. “First one to find an elf head buys lunch.”

“You’re on!” Harry planted a distinctly passionate kiss on him, then pulled back, looking pleased. “I’m gonna shower. Help yourself to clothes.”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?” Draco glanced at his muggle clothes lying on Harry’s floor. They’d need a thorough cleaning after what they’d endured, first on the couch and then on this bed.

“Sorry.” Harry beamed. “But I’d do it again. Maybe later this afternoon if you’re up for it.” He wiggled his eyebrows and then headed for the bathroom.

Draco admired Harry’s naked body in motion then went to the wardrobe and frowned at its contents. Harry’s house elf must be half pixie to let his clothes get into this state.

“Your clothing is atrocious, Potter!” He shouted over the sound of the shower.

He opened the wizarding space beyond and rifled through the clothes there, eventually pulling out a bespoke silk shirt made for Sirius Black in 1979. It would do. Perhaps with this vest and those velvet trousers. Draco opened a drawer and found a close-fitting pair of muggle underpants. He slipped them on, marvelling at the stretchy fabric and the support they provided. Merlin’s beard, they made his crotch and arse look fabulous. He added a leather belt whose silver buckle highlighted the former of those assets.

He opened Harry’s sock drawer and dug around inside, looking for a pair that weren't designed to be worn with trainers. His fingers closed on something hard and he lifted it out, his jaw dropping.

Harry stepped in, drying his hair with a towel. “What was that you shouted? Something about clothes?”

Draco turned to him, hold up the offended item. “You keep your Order of Merlin in a sock drawer? That’s practically treason, Potter.”

Harry shrugged. “Not like I need it handy.” His eyes took in Draco’s clothing. “Don’t you look flash.” He tossed his towel onto a pile of laundry in the corner. “Give me a minute to dress and I’ll make breakfast.”

Draco agreed, expecting Harry’s cooking to rival Bandy’s.

Ten minutes later he let out a groan of satisfaction as he bit into warm cheesy egg, salty smoky ham and crunchy muffin.  _Merlin, I love him_ , Draco thought between bites of delicious breakfast sandwich. He swallowed and took a dainty sip of perfectly brewed coffee.

“I hate you,” he said.

“Whag?” Harry asked, around a mouthful of food.

“I hate you. For showing me what I’ve been missing. You’d have to eat Bandy’s cooking to understand and I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Harry swallowed. “You can have breakfast with me anytime.”

“I may take you up on that.” Draco wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “Now why don’t you show me this attic of yours? A galleon says you find an elf head in the first twenty minutes.”

"You're on." 

[End]


End file.
